Angel From The Moon
by FlutterMouse
Summary: "As far as they were concerned, Mihael had been their failed first-attempt. They couldn't risk him being around when Luciel was born. He was their first-born, but he was undoubtedly second-best." Mello resents his baby brother from the day he learns of his existence. But that all changes when they meet. An AU-ish scenario, set when Mello is twelve.
1. Prologue: Once-Mihael

**I got inspired to write this fanfic a while ago, after browsing headcanons and what-ifs on Tumblr. It's set in the same universe as canon, though I've altered a lot of details concerning the Wammy's kids' backstory in order to make this work, so most canonical laws etc. have kind of gone out the window. In this universe, Mello has been at Wammy's Orphanage from the age of five, and it can be presumed that Matt and Near have been there for as long as he has, if not longer. I know Mello's family aren't canonically English - or, that is the most accepted theory - so in order to get around this, I figured that maybe they moved to Winchester a year after Mello had been born?**

** Anyway, yeah. I hope you like this AU and I hope it makes sense - I'm planning it as a continuous work, though I'm very busy lately so my updates probably won't be all that frequent. Warnings, I guess, are references to abusive situations and generally a lot of tears. Still, this story centres largely around children, so the rating shouldn't get too high. The chapter I have here is more of a prologue than anything, but I digress. Enjoy!**

* * *

It was an ugly night. Frosty and miserable; the kind where the sky turns the colour of iodine, the moon lost behind a thick black smog. Icy wind ripped through the garden of the house, carrying with it little droplets of icy water; it jostled the bushes backwards and forth, howled in the passageways and frightened the cats. All in all, it was an ugly, _ugly _November night.

In the centre of the garden, peering discreetly into the house, stood a small and slender child of maybe around four feet six; judging from his height, he was by no means older than ten. Dressed all in black, he stood hunched in on himself with his elbows pulled close to his body, but it did nothing to combat the weather's assault. The wind tore at his clothes and the grass - wet and cold with dew - slapped repeatedly at his bare ankles, exposed by black trousers that needed their hems taken down. His hair - the only colourful part of him, a radiant blond - flew loosely about his face in the breeze, and on the whole, he appeared thoroughly incongruous with his surroundings.

Not that he seemed to be paying them any attention.

No - what held the attention of his intense blue eyes lay not outside the house, but was contained within the very walls of it. From where he was standing, he could see right into the heart of the house, over the kitchen counter and in where the table had been set for three. He could see the warm glow of a family finishing dinner, and he watched them intently as they interacted, lost in them like they were putting on a performance.

The boy's name had once been Mihael Keehl, but that wasn't what he called himself any more. He'd stopped using that name following his enrolment at Wammy's House, the orphanage where he had been living for the last five years. His old name - though he had always liked the sound of it - brought back memories he didn't want any more. Memories of this house, of this garden, where he wouldn't be standing if it weren't for...

...the folders. The conversation. The _folders_.

It had been mid-morning when he'd first found out about the folders.

Already, it felt like a lifetime ago.

* * *

There were three people sitting at the table, two of whom he recognised from years and years behind him. The first of these was Sabina Keehl; not a tall woman, but a pretty one, with a kind, loving face and a voice which bubbled gently as she spoke. The boy could remember the way she sounded like he'd heard it only the day before; remembered every lilt and every little titter - every frightened shriek. On the other end of the table, now stood up, was Elias Keehl. A tall and stocky man, but not as tall as once-Mihael remembered. His face was softer now, too; changed over the years. The smiling buffoon he saw through the mottled glass was different to the red-faced, slurring giant from his past; so different he was almost unrecognisable. But through the layers of newness, it was still unmistakably _him_.

The third figure - the final figure - was smaller. Much, _much_ smaller, and _new_; it took once-Mihael a moment, but then he realised that this figure had to be around five years old. The knowledge came like a punch in the gut, enough to double him over, but he didn't move from where he stood; didn't even flinch. That child... he was beaming up at his mother and the look on his face was so adorable... so blissful and _so_ innocent...

...absent-mindedly, once-Mihael clenched his fists.

* * *

He'd been sitting curled up with his back to the trunk of an apple tree when he first caught whispers from Roger, talking to someone about the folders.

It was too cold to be outside, really - frost gave a silver lining to the cracks in the wooden benches, and a bitter breeze was snaking around the grounds - but when Matt had asked it of him, he hadn't protested.

Really, he hadn't wanted to go. _Really._

He'd been planning on using his Saturday to hole up in the library, that one corner where no-one else sat for fear that he would sock them. He was going to start with some practise work on surds, and then, once he was satisfied with that, he was going to touch up his French verb conjugation. But it was the way that Matt had asked him - so insistent behind his smile, like really, he was pleading - that had changed his mind. The two hadn't spoken much in the last week and he was really starting to miss the company.

After trying several benches, only to find that they were too chilly to sit on, they nabbed a ratty blanket from the cloakroom and spread it out over the soft earth under the tree. They hadn't worn coats. Matt maybe would've done, only he had lost his somewhere in his laundry pile, and once-Mihael had neglected his in order to be companionable. They decided that they could always wrap the blanket around them if things got colder. Matt was sat with his knees tucked up to his chest, a handheld in his lap, and once-Mihael had been curled around his side in order to watch, when he overheard Roger.

It hadn't been a large tip-off. Just a subtle little mention of their files, strolling with a stranger down the path; just enough to give him reason to suspect that the Orphanage knew something he didn't. And he'd been right. He'd been very, very right, in a very, very significant way.

Matt hadn't objected when he'd stood up and left, though he looked visibly disappointed. It was still early enough for the sun not to have reached its midday point, and what had originally supposed to have been a day just between them was now abruptly being cut off. Still, once-Mihael had important things to do; although he felt wrong-footed, he couldn't just stop. Matt wouldn't hold a grudge against him once he understood, and if he was still mad, then he could always find a way to get around him. Maybe tomorrow, they could hang around together. Or the day after. Or some day after that.

* * *

So that had been his plan. Wait until Roger went on his tea break, sneak into the office and scour it for the folders. He didn't particularly care if he left evidence; as far as he saw it, Roger could know that he'd been there and it wouldn't make a great deal of difference. He spent long enough searching that he was almost caught red-handed, but he managed to tuck the file labelled "Mello," into the waistband of his trousers before Roger saw him with it. He knew from the man's face as he was leaving the office that he would be found out soon, but that didn't deter him. He didn't need long. Just long enough to read them.

As soon as he was out of the old man's office, he made a straight sprint for his and Matt's shared room. He almost barged straight in, but thought better of it just in time. Through the thick, varnished wood of the old door, he could hear a very faint tune that jilted and booped at odd moments. Matt was in there. There was no way he'd be able to shake him off _again_.

Once-Mihael had then made his way to the bathroom, where he'd locked himself in a stall to examine the files. The library would've been a better choice, but there was always someone else around and he needed his privacy. Besides, as soon as Roger realised that his file was missing, the library would be the first place he'd look. Even if he did eventually check the bathroom, the locked door would take a while to dismantle and that would be long enough.

It was a sound plan, once-Mihael decided. After he was finished with the files, he could slip them back into their nook in Roger's office, and then slip away.

What he hadn't been anticipating were the words printed across the pages.

The truth. About him. His parents.

And this new element...

...Luciel.

* * *

Once upon a time - a very, very distant time - once-Mihael had been Luciel's age. Just five, and small, with weak lungs that needed constant looking after, despite his insistence on playing outdoors. Back then, Sabina and Elias Keehl had been two very different people; the parents from his memory were a sharp and painful contrast to those standing in their kitchen, washing up together, before his eyes. As once-Mihael watched them through the mottled glass - watched his father pass his mother a cheese grater, watched her dry it, smiling - he remembered when he'd been in Luciel's place. Remembered where Luciel would've been, if things were still the way they were. Remembered scrunching himself under the bed in the foetal position, shaking, covering his ears as the tears streamed free.

Remembered the shouting.

The crying, the pleading.

The blood.

"_Please- please, Eli, not in front of Mihael!_" his mother had screamed. Her cry resounded shrilly in once-Mihael's memory. She'd been holding a hand over her eye, a redness bubbling out from between her fingers. At the mention of their child's name, Elias had turned to Mihael and scowled.

"_What are you still doing here, you Goddamned brat?!"_

That had been his cue to leave. If he didn't, he knew how things would go. His father would leer down at him, would swagger drunkenly over to attack. His mother would launch herself at him from behind. The two would collapse, frighteningly close, and the fight would continue until the carpet was stained red. Once Sabina was no longer conscious - or else, too weak to fight back - it was Mihael's turn. His body bruised easy, but his face was always left alone. Even drunk, Elias knew how to divert suspicion. And nobody suspected.

Once-Mihael had always been led to believe that his parents were dead. That was why he was in an orphanage; he was an orphan. He could remember in detail the long nights full of shouting, and he assumed that on one of those nights, Sabina had been murdered, and Elias had turned the violence on himself. But he couldn't remember it. All he remembered was being led away from the house, surrounded by bright, flashing lights.

After reading the file - hunched over it on the toilet, gripping it so tightly that his nails left indents - there was only one thing left that he could think.

His parents hadn't wanted him. Sabina and Elias hadn't wanted him.

And then there was Luciel. That little... that _little..._

* * *

"Time for bed, Luciel," once-Mihael heard his father say through the glass. Five years ago - when he'd been the one in the house - his father had never wished him a goodnight, much less carried him upstairs. But that was what he was seeing.

The boy - the radiant little boy, Luciel - giggled as his father scooped him out of his chair, and threw his arms around his neck. Sabina kissed him on the forehead, said, "Goodnight," and watched with once-Mihael as Elias bounced the child up and down playfully, carrying him out of eyeshot.

Once-Mihael shuddered against the blast of the wind. He hadn't wanted this. This hadn't been his plan.

He'd wanted the child to be unhappy. It was a guilty wish, but he'd wanted it. He'd wanted - when he stole the money from Roger, when he vaulted over the wall and dashed his way through the streets of Winchester - to be running to the rescue. To storm up their front pathway, bang on the door and demand that Luciel be handed over immediately. He'd wanted his mother to look at him with shock and affection, to beg him not to come inside and get himself hurt. He'd wanted his father to be passed out on the floor in the living room, reeking of alcohol. To take his mother by the hand, to hoist Luciel onto his back and march them away, to Wammy's House. To get them out of there - for them to _need_ him to get them out of there.

He hadn't wanted them to be so... so _perfect_.

* * *

Standing outside the window, watching as Sabina Keehl tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and tidied the table, once-Mihael felt everything click.

His father must've been on the road to recovery when he left. He must've seen someone about his alcoholism, must've taken classes, pills or something. He must've done it for his wife, but Mihael's existence had never been enough to prompt him. No -

\- as far as they were concerned, Mihael had been the failed first-attempt. The child that had watched between his fingers as things went from bad to worse; the one they'd already messed up beyond repair. Keeping him? Out of the question. No, he knew too much. They couldn't risk him being around when Luciel was born. That child was to hear none of this life; that child was to be their anchor, keeping them from reverting back to how they'd been.

Luciel. His replacement.

The child who was given the life _he_ deserved, the life _he_ wanted.

Had they told this child about him? Probably not. In fact, if they knew what they were doing, they'd probably erased all records of his existence. Only Wammy's House had the remaining copies.

* * *

Suddenly, once-Mihael felt a vulnerability growing inside of him. It disabled the resolve which had kept him braced against the rain. Alone and abandoned, he felt the shivers wrack his body and it hurt, it hurt _so much _knowing he couldn't go inside for shelter.

Knowing he couldn't ask his mother for a blanket, or a hot drink. Knowing Wammy's House could provide these things, but not because they cared.

Being second really was the bane of his life. It was what drove him every day, what attacked him when he lay in an otherwise peaceful sleep. It was what stopped him from ever truly relaxing, even when he was having fun with Matt.

He was their first-born, but he was undoubtedly second-best.

* * *

With this knowledge lodged like a shard of ice in his heart, once-Mihael's knees wobbled and he took a step back. The wind buffeted his ten-year-old body left and right, and he no longer had the resolve to fight it. The streets of Winchester were dark and lonely, and it was an ugly, _ugly _November night.

Once-Mihael had caught the bus on his way to this area, but now, he ran.

He ran and ran, weak lungs sawing, every breath reminding him that nobody cared.

He could only tell the difference between the rain and his tears for one reason: the rain was cold, his tears were hot. He ran until the chill got to him and there was no longer a difference.

He ran and ran, and when he reached the orphanage, he fell to his knees before it. He hadn't the heart to stay on his feet any longer. When Matt found him, he lay slumped against the door of their room, and his knock had been so faint that he would've missed it, had he not been listening out.

Once-Mihael wasn't running any more, but bawling. It was something he didn't do in front of the other children, lest he tarnish his fierce reputation. But Matt had seen him cry.

The night was long and Mello spent it shivering in damp clothes, crying softly in Matt's arms. He never did tell Matt why he'd left that day; only that he wished he hadn't.

As expected, Matt didn't argue with this at all.

It only made him cry harder.

* * *

**Thank you for taking the time to read this; please do review, it brightens my whole day. **** I am writing this intending for it to be an uplifting fic, so apologies if the first chapter is rather dark and depressing - I promise things will get better. (Or maybe they won't - heheheh.) Thanks again!**


	2. CH1: The Darkness From The Window

**First of all, thank you for bearing with me! I'm not a big person for writing continuous fan works - generally one-shots are easier to stick to when I'm practising - but this is turning out to be a very fun project, different to most of what I write.**

** This is the first official chapter of Angel From The Moon, the last being a prologue (and originally something I almost left out, but thought better of.) I don't think that the difference should be too jarring, but just to make it easier, I'm going to point out that there has been a time jump of two years from the last instalment to now. (In the prologue, Mello was 10, Luciel was 5; now Luciel is 7 and Mello is 12.) **

** No real warnings apply, so I'd rate this chapter as suitable for universal viewing; the last one wasn't severely bad, but this one is much tamer. Anyhow, thanks again. Enjoy!**

* * *

The moon was high and white in the sky, and it cast long, pearly shadows across Luce's carpet, the night upon which he first met his guardian angel.

Just seven years old, he had been rustling under his covers for a while now, chasing sleep like a rabbit through a forest, but it wouldn't come. At first, it had been the sinking glory of the sun through his window which kept him awake, tolerable only because of how beautiful it looked. He figured he could always wind down once it had set. And yet, after patiently waiting as the orange sky faded into dusk, he found that the heat of July still smothered him unrelentingly in darkness.

Not that, in the peak of summer, the night could really be considered _dark. _Even when the streets were silent with sleep and the stars glinted softly, the sky remained a lucid shade of blue, and if Luce craned his neck, he could see the moon suspended like a locket over the houses on the other side of the street. Whether it was waxing or waning, he didn't know, but the sight of it made him feel safe and protected. Peaceful.

What must have been three hours ago now - or what felt like just as long in his restless, youthful mind - his parents had tucked him into bed. He'd waited until he could hear them softly snoring in their bedroom before slipping out cautiously from under his sheets, creeping over to the window and unfastening the latch. Soft pink fingertips struggled at first with the metal, though it soon came loose and with a little creak, he was left with sore hands and the gratification of an air current against his pyjamas as the night was allowed into his room.

It was an innocent action on a night so warm, although the lack of parental permission left him nervous as he inched the glass upwards, exposing more of his body to the cooler outside air. He couldn't have helped it. He was too hot in his bed, and he hadn't opened it far; just far enough to let in a little breeze, and to inform the man in the moon that he was always welcome.

The gentle tug of sleep in the rear quadrants of his mind was beginning to lull his eyes closed when he heard it. A soft scuffling, the sound of flimsy wood being wrestled with, coming from what sounded like the garden beneath his window. Maybe it was a badger, or a fox.

Naive and at ease in his environment, Luce shut his eyes and allowed the sounds to sink into the background, trusting the moon to watch over him and whatever amiable creature was out there. The sounds hadn't made him afraid; he was too warm and exhausted for that. His eyelids fluttered and, with a small, tired grunt, he rolled onto his back, turning his head to face the drawings on his wall.

* * *

When he woke, his immediate judgement was that he wasn't supposed to be awake.

What he could see of the night sky - craning his neck to peer around the looming black silhouette which obscured it - was still that summery sapphire blue, still twinkling with stars. Luce rubbed sleepily at his eyes, feeling confused as he searched for the moon. His nap had left him covered in a sticky film of sweat and there was a bad taste on his lips. He frowned. The moon was out of sight; there was something in his way.

Wait. _Wait._

As the realisation blossomed in his mind, Luce froze dead where he lay, propped up weakly on his elbows. He couldn't speak, daren't move. There was a tightness in his calves and a sudden terrible fear which compelled him to stay exactly as he was, sweating lightly, and stare.

In the centre of his room, surrounded by familiar shapes and colours, there stood a dark and unfathomable form, with its back turned on the sky. Luce could just barely make out over its shoulder that the window - that same window he'd opened with such innocence, not long before - had been pushed wider, and now here he was, staring with wide blue eyes at a terrible something-

-a some_one. _

Luce's mouth felt dry. He wanted desperately to cry out to his mummy for help, wanted his daddy to come rushing in and topple the stranger with his cricket bat - but instead, he was silent. He couldn't see the eyes on him, but he knew they were there. He felt them pinning down his body, pressing over him, urging him to _shhh._

Neither he nor the darkness moved for what felt, to Luce, like a very long time. He knew from the vividness of everything around him that he wasn't dreaming - knew with an unnerving finality this wasn't a nightmare - though in a strange way, he wished that it was. If it were a nightmare, he would wake up. If it were a nightmare, he could forget all about it.

He'd never wanted a nightmare before, but he'd take one over this - any day.

* * *

What felt like hours passed - though the unchanging sky told him otherwise - before the darkness made a move.

Luce held his breath, still paralysed in its presence, but it didn't advance towards him, as he'd expected that it would. Instead, it turned - gracefully - and exited the same way it had come. It hadn't told him what it wanted, nor why it was there; in fact, it hadn't appeared to want anything at all. It just came, and then, without warning, it went.

Needless to say, Luce spent his every waking moment after that with his eyes trained on the window. It was still open, for he hadn't the guts to leave the warmth of his covers and venture over to close it, though the chill of the night had finally set in... or maybe that was fear. Had he not been a scrawny seven-year-old boy, who had been tired before the charade even begun, he might well have remained conscious all night, keeping watch. As it was, he succumbed to sleep with far less fight than he'd have liked, and in the morning - just as the sun was cresting over the rooftops outside - he woke in a state of terror so intense that he wet the bed.

It wasn't a pleasant start.

* * *

"I'm telling you, mummy," chirped Luce, an hour later; "I know what I saw! There was a monster in my room."

He'd been trying to convince her all morning as she'd sorted him out, following his accident in the bed. Presently, he was sitting up to the kitchen table, fresh out of the bath, ignoring the porridge in front of him. The sun had come up fully now, and it shone in through the windows, glinting off his pale hair as his mother - standing behind him - ran through it gently with a brush.

"Eat your breakfast," she instructed, but she was smiling fondly as she listened to him carry on. "Quick. It'll get cold if you don't."

Sabina Keehl was not a sizeable woman; maybe five feet six in height, with the stature of a sparrow and long blonde hair she wore in a plait down her back. In photographs Luce had seen of her when she was very young, her hair had been a much stronger colour, radiant like corn; now though, it was pale, soft and subdued, and odd little strands of white ran through it. Despite this, she was not an old woman - far from it. The look she carried about her was almost timeless; mature in a very maternal way, yet also young at her centre, full of vitality and joy. Luce had always wanted to take after his mother, and he certainly looked like her, with the same fair hair and the same soft, aquamarine eyes. And yet today, all he could think of was how little she understood.

"But _mum!_" he cried, for the umpteenth time, and kicked in agitation at the leg of the table. "I saw it! I really did! It was dark and - and it was staring at me and - and I _saw_ it!"

Sabina smiled unrelentingly and gathered a mass of his flaxen hair, combing it lovingly with her fingers. "Of course you did, _moja sladka._"

Luce pouted in response. Normally, he enjoyed it when his mother played with his hair, but today, he was finding it unusually annoying. "You don't believe me, do you?"

"I can't say I do, Luciel darling," Sabina said. She leaned over him and pecked his cheek with a kiss, simultaneously removing his breakfast bowl. "Here, let me warm this up."

Luce stopped her with a hand on her forearm. "Mummy, please. Listen. I promise you, it was _there._"

With a weary sigh, she nodded. "Whatever you say, _svetlost. _If you think it was there, it was there." Luce made a face that looked like it was about to complain, so quickly, she elaborated: "I didn't see, so what do I know?"

* * *

For the next three nights following the visit of the darkness, Luce was careful not to open his window a crack; not even when the temperature soared and the heat made it difficult to breathe. He slept with only his head poking out from under the covers - a little crown of blonde sticking up like a periscope, so that, in the event of its return, he would see - and when things got too hot, he merely stripped down to nothing, afraid to draw the covers back. He'd been read to enough when he was little to know the protection a blanket served. Monsters couldn't hurt you through it. No longer trusting the moon to guard him, the blanket was the only real shield he had left.

On the third evening, just as night was falling, he relented.

It was a roasting hot night. Not humid and boiling, but truly, a raging _roast_; had he not slid the window open those precious few inches, he thought he might have suffocated, right there, in his bed. Even so, he kept the blanket tucked tightly around him, and for that night, it worked. No noises disturbed him prematurely from his slumber, and no shadowy figures awaited him in the morning. In fact, the sleep had turned out to be pleasantly long and encompassing.

By the end of the week, Luce's confidence had grown to almost a full recovery, such that he was back where he started; the moon shone high over the houses across the street, and he was gazing out comfortably at a serene night-blue sky pocked with stars. The only difference was that this time, should he hear any scuffling, he'd decided that he would immediately run and slam the window closed.

As the night grew deeper, and sleep began weighing heavily on his eyelids, Luce's fears lessened and lessened, until he was just about ready to drop off. They continued to lessen as the breeze drifted in through his window, and lessened still as he tossed and turned, slightly too hot under his blanket despite the breeze filtering in.

They continued to lessen until, suddenly, they spiked.

_Scuffle, scuffle. BANG! Scuffle._

Luce sat bolt upright in his bed. The sounds were loud outside and he wanted to slam the window down, but his legs were all of a sudden taut and unmovable. His plan had been to shut the window, to seal out the darkness immediately, yet the best he could do was press his back to the headboard and watch with eyes full of horror. What he hadn't anticipated... what he hadn't anticipated was that by the time he heard the warning sounds, he'd be too late. Now, as the moon hovered in its place - not his shield but an onlooker, a useless spectator who might not even be paying attention - Luciel could see the darkness slowly rising outside his window. He watched with wide, petrified eyes as its fingers curled around the sill and all at once, the spell was on him once more.

He couldn't move.

He couldn't fight.

He couldn't even scream.

Instead, he watched helplessly as the darkness heaved itself over his windowsill, its outline drawn like chalk in the moonlight. He watched as it flung out a sharp elbow, forcing the window wider to accommodate its doubled-over form, and heard its quiet curse. And in it crawled, a writhing black mass, until its balance shifted and in it fell. It landed on the carpet with a soft thud.

Silence. Luce swallowed nervously, feeling compelled to break the silence while the darkness was on its knees, but he didn't know what to say. How was one supposed to go about addressing a shadow? Late at night, too? - in his room?

The silence continued as slowly, tantalizingly, the darkness found its feet. It seemed wobbly at first, uncertain and more human than it had before. Maybe it was down to being caught in the act, but nonetheless it straightened, revealing a lithe figure swathed in thick dark clothing. Luce noticed with a start that its hood - had it really been wearing a hood? He'd failed to notice - had fallen squint, exposing a tuft of pale yellow to the light of the moon. So the darkness was human, or at least, humanoid. Luce breathed a little sigh, though whether or not relief had been its trigger was beyond him. He was just... rapt.

The darkness cocked its head slightly and Luce got the impression it was staring at him, though its face was still too shadowed-over for him to see its eyes. It stood there staring for a long, quiet moment; so long that Luce's heart gave a little flutter, as he wondered if tonight would be the same as before. And then the darkness cleared its throat, took a brisk step forward and Luce's heart dropped into his stomach.

Its voice was not the voice he had been expecting. The way the darkness spoke was low, but not deep; harsh, but not aggressive. The inflection of its syllables was clear and pronounced, the same way that a storyteller's inflection is pronounced, and overall it sounded confident in a very uncertain way.

But what jarred Luciel most of all was that the voice didn't sound old, or even adult; older than him, for sure, but still very young. Old enough to be strong, capable of scaling a trellis on the side of a house, but young enough to not think about the consequences; young enough to actually _do it. _For whatever reason. After everything, Luce still didn't know why it was here. Its first sentence bore no semblance of an explanation, nor an introduction, as if such things weren't necessary.

The moonlight was encompassing, and it gave the intruder a long shadow across Luce's carpet, but all of Luce's attention was on its face. That little lock of hair protruding from the hood; the thin strands of humanity, of _there's a person under that coat. _He swallowed back his frightened tears, still unable to cry out. And the darkness gave no acknowledgement of this, no reassurance or even a greeting. Instead, its opening was blunt:

"Next time, I'd appreciate it if you opened that thing wider."

* * *

**Well, there you go! That's the first proper chapter for you.**

** I hope you found this entertaining; I know that often fan-works are less pleasant to read when original characters are involved, but I really feel like this is the right way to address this story. Do review to tell me your thoughts, I like knowing what I'm doing well etc.; other than that, thanks for reading and at some point or other, this story will continue!**

** (Also, just to note, the little phrases used by Mrs Keehl earlier on in this chapter are Slovenian. I used them because I wanted to show that the family are not native to England, so that they match up with most people's headcanons regarding Mello. I may have gotten them slightly wrong, since I don't actually speak the language, but they should roughly translate into affectionate nicknames. (If anyone reading this happens to speak Slovenian, please tell me if I made a mistake!))**


	3. CH2: The Darkness With A Voice

**Another chapter! I'm feeling a real excitement about this story, I'm not sure where it's coming from all of a sudden but I'm hoping to get out as much as I can before my enthusiasm begins to decline. First of all, thanks to anyone who's stuck with the story this far, your feedback makes the whole experience more enjoyable. Secondly, things at school are starting to get really intense for me in preparation for exams, so my next update is probably going to take much longer.**

** This chapter was originally going to have another half, though I've decided that I can write that as a separate chapter now, given how long this one is already. Anyhow, thank you and I shall stop talking. This chapter, I'm really excited about. I hope you enjoy it.**

* * *

Luce could feel his heart in his chest.

It wasn't a sensation that - in his short and jovial life - he'd grown especially used to. Behind delicate ribs, the muscle quivered and pulsed at an alarming rate, and although he knew it was impossible, Luce swore he could feel his blood as it was propelled through his chest and lungs. The lungs themselves were very confused, seemingly collapsing in on themselves; constricted by a tense and frightened diaphragm, which just barely twitched.

Luce had no idea how his heart was still beating, and yet it was. Still hammering, still working frantically in his chest despite the way the rest of him had frozen. His lungs couldn't possibly be delivering him enough oxygen, not when his breaths came so furtive and shallow; he didn't know why he hadn't started suffocating yet. All he knew was his fear, and the little tidbits of circulatory-respiratory knowledge cluttering his head did nothing to overshadow it.

He swallowed. He stared into the darkness, and the darkness stared back.

Maybe it would leave. Maybe, he wondered, it would get bored of standing there and it would leave him alone. He hoped it did, but somehow knew it wouldn't. He knew it just as he knew, now more than ever, that the darkness from the window was not a dream. No, it was real - it was daunting, silent and real - and his mummy had been dreadfully mistaken.

The darkness swayed slightly, perhaps shifting its balance onto the other foot, and huffed. It appeared to be waiting for something, not that Luce - still wide-eyed and trembling - was able to fathom what. Upon realising that no response was on its way, the darkness gave a soft little sigh and said, none too kindly, "I guess you must be Luciel."

Luce felt his breath catch in his throat when he heard his name on its tongue. That changed everything. Suddenly, this wasn't so much a haunting as it was a confrontation.

It wasn't that the darkness had a particularly threatening voice; just that it was a stranger's, and it was dark and they were alone in his room. Outside, the wind gave a low and blustery howl. Luce felt as a choked whimper wormed its way from his throat, and heard the darkness' smirk more than he saw it.

"I have to say, you're... _ahem_... not really living up to my expectations."

Luce could hear the calculated mockery in those words, but found that the more he heard the darkness speak, the less nervous he felt around it. Uncertainly, he watched the darkness as it stood; watched until its posture became less sturdy, and he realised something. He felt afraid - of course he did, he was petrified, he was helpless - but he wasn't the only one.

The darkness swayed a little and tried again. Luce felt the fire of its words like a warm glow across his cheeks; he was still scared, but the feeling grew weaker as he began to see what he'd previously missed. The humanity at the core of the darkness, the side of it that - like him - was beginning to grow uncomfortable with the silence.

"What - are you just going to stare at me?"

_No. Yes. I don't know. _Luce tried averting his eyes, but managed for only a second before they snapped back into place. He couldn't bear to take his eyes off of the stranger, for fear that he would advance - or maybe withdraw a weapon - and he'd miss his warning. He knew there wouldn't be anything he could do about it regardless, but still, he felt safer watching the darkness. Maybe it wouldn't try anything while he watched. Maybe.

"Come _on_," said the darkness, its voice sharp and terse. "Have you got nothing to say?"

Luce gulped and balled his fists nervously in his blankets. What was the darkness expecting? Did it _want _him to cry out for help?

"Honestly," it continued sourly, turning away with a swish of black clothes. From this angle, the strands of blond were obscured by the rest of its hood, which was less than reassuring. Still, Luce felt his heart flutter hopefully for a second as the darkness neared the window, the open air and the faintly glinting stars. But instead of exiting, small hands came forth and pulled the glass down, shut. That was when Luce's breathing really picked up; now, he was trapped. He didn't want to die in here. Not alone in this room, not alone with this stranger.

"Wh-wha... _aiih..._"

The darkness spun on him and his words diminished into a soft whimper of fear. He'd been going to ask its name, or maybe what it wanted with him, or indeed, who it was. But he couldn't. Not when it was facing him, watching him disparagingly as he shaped his mouth to form words.

"Yes?"

Luce didn't understand its voice at all. Velvety soft, almost floral, and yet... so _sharp. _Like thorns. The audible equivalent of a rose, beautiful until you knelt to pick it.

"Mmh..." Luce himself was having a hard time replying. Now that he'd made that first stutter - now that the first little edges of words had nudged their way out - there was no going back. The darkness was going to keep pressing at him, taking foreboding little steps until it was leaning close, and he'd have no choice. He swallowed. He dreaded to think what it might do to him, if he didn't answer.

"I'm waiting," came the prickly sound, and Luce wondered if he'd gotten the voice wrong in his head; if there was more to it than he had heard. He pressed his lips together and waited for it to speak again. Through the fear, he was curious. He wanted to catch what he'd missed.

The darkness folded its arms. Luce couldn't see it properly through the gloom, hence why it was silhouetted in the first place, but he could tell that much from its movement. What was it wearing - a hoodie? A massively oversized black hoodie?

It didn't matter. What mattered was replying - but he couldn't. He was shaking and so nervous that he thought he might pee, and the darkness was focused on him intently and he just... he couldn't.

"Hey," the darkness called out, taking a minute step closer. _Step back,_ Luce pleaded inside his head, _step back._ It was less than a metre away from the bed; there was nothing to gain from moving closer. But it didn't step back. It leaned forward and lowered its voice, whispering earnestly. "Are you scared of me?"

Luce nodded mechanically, still too fearful to articulate any kind of words. Hadn't it been obvious? Right from the start, he'd been stiff as a board, trembling uncontrollably, wide-eyed. No-one could've missed that. Especially not the darkness, which gave off a distinct impression of intellect even at a distance.

The darkness sighed heavily and deliberately, loud enough for Luce, but not for anyone else in the house. Quietly, mutedly, it said, "Do you want to turn on the lamp?"

* * *

Very long ago, when Luce was only four or five, he'd had a bout of terrible nightmares. Not the kind of nightmares you might expect from a boy his age; there were no sea monsters or zombies or armies of skeletons. No, these nightmares were subtle and recurring; soft whispers against his ear, cold water dripping down his back, blood on a carpet. Sometimes, the nightmares got to him so much that he'd wake screaming, fitting in his bed, the sheets soaked. It got to the point where both parents had to take turns sleeping in his room, until the whole family was worn out. Luce remembered seeing a woman named Kerry for a little while about his nightmares. She had had dark brown hair and a soft, rounded face; she'd talked to him about languages and overall been very friendly. He didn't remember quite who she'd been or why he'd been made to visit her, but he missed her sometimes. One of the first things she recommended, upon hearing about his terrors, was the purchase of a night light.

He hadn't had to use the lamp in almost a year, but he always kept it on his bedside table just in case. It was a pretty little lamp, a lightbulb encased in a sturdy wire structure, which had been overlaid with tissue paper of various warming colours. Now covered in a thin layer of dust, it sat like a guard, a familiar and immovable part of the room.

Luce had many memories of switching on the lamp. He'd wake in the night when the wind was screaming outside and he'd reach over blindly, fearful of what was out there for him. As he'd fumble for the switch, he'd be filled with a bloodcurdling panic on behalf of his outstretched arm, and then suddenly - mercifully - the room would be filled with a reassuring, honey-coloured light.

He glanced at the darkness stood before him. It hadn't moved since its last question, and he wondered for a moment if it was going to. It seemed odd that his nightmare was the one suggesting he turn on the lamp; surely it had to be a trick, some kind of evil game that would end in tears. He thought about it some more, but realised sooner or later that he didn't really have a choice: if he said no, he'd be doomed to the darkness and whatever it had in store for him, but if he said yes... there wasn't much hope, but if he said yes, he might be allowed the light. Luce furrowed his eyebrows thoughtfully for a moment, risking odd glances at the stranger, whom he still couldn't really see. Then, cautiously, he nodded.

It seemed like it was worth a shot.

Slowly, never taking his eyes off of the darkness, he inched one hand out from under the covers, towards his bedside table. The darkness said nothing. Its arms were still folded, and that little lock of hair was still poking out from under its hood, caught white in the moonlight. The room felt cold and timeless, the kind of space you could remain in for what felt like days only to emerge an hour or so later. Luce's hand found the wood of the table. He inched it up. Slowly, slowly - yes, there was the wire, the thick rubber lifeline that felt like safety in his hands. The darkness gazed down at him patiently. Luce found the switch.

A moment passed in silence, a strangely pensive moment for Luce, as he felt his heartbeat slowing. His hand felt clammy around the switch and he wanted nothing more than to press it, but what then? He'd drive away the darkness, sure, but what of the person left behind? What did it look like? Who was it, really?

Luce gulped, no longer feeling sure that he wanted to know. But the darkness was still there, still as unyielding and intimidating as it ever had been. Luce paused for only a moment longer, wondering if its face matched its voice, before screwing his eyes shut and pressing down on the switch.

* * *

The churning black behind his eyes lasted only a second before it was overthrown by a warm and opulent amber. One of Luce's favourite things about the lamp had always been its ability to permeate through darkness, even the darkness that lay behind his eyes.

Hearing that the intruder hadn't recoiled from the light, Luce hesitated a moment before cracking his eyes open and peering at it cautiously through his eyelashes. Dark jeans, a black hoodie, exactly as he'd presumed from the moonlight. Blue eyes travelled up to find a youthful face, shiny and full of contrasting shadows in the unnatural light; yes, Luce thought, his face matched his voice exactly.

The stranger standing before him, now bathed in the soft honey-gold glow of the lamp, no longer looked like a stranger. From the chin-length golden-blond hair that fell around his face, to the face itself - stern and sharp as an adult's, but softer, younger, with wide, glassy eyes that appeared to mimic the movements of his own - the stranger resembled his mother. Not his mother as he knew him now, mind, but as he knew her in the photograph she'd shown him; taken when she was only young, perhaps twenty. This boy was not twenty, not even close, but the seriousness of his expression aged him, brought him up to her level. Luce was amazed that he hadn't turned out to be a monster, but not as amazed as he was by how someone so young could already look so old.

No longer frightened of the silhouette - that vague shape that the boy no longer was - Luce relaxed his shoulders, feeling his pillows puff around him as he settled. The tables had definitely turned now, the light taking away the stranger's hold; now Luce felt comfortable, and this other, older child did not.

Being the kind child that he was, Luce reached out to his bedside table, where he momentarily took his eyes off of the stranger in order to pick up his water cup. He offered it cautiously, not wanting to spill any, though it was barely half full. His parents never filled it all the way in case he knocked it over.

"Here," he squeaked. His hand was still shaking a little bit and his voice was still pitchy, but he was no longer afraid. "You look thirsty."

Something happened to the stranger's face then, but the change was so rapid that Luce barely caught it. The best he could explain it was that something had taken a hold of him, for suddenly his face had alighted with several expressions at once. He looked aghast, and he looked amazed, and it was all the same look; the same incomprehensible look. His eyes were blue, Luce noted, just like his own. Subtly bright, like the sky in early Spring.

A shaky hand reached out to take the cup, and Luce felt the skin of his knuckles brush against the stranger's as he helped him with the handle. The stranger's hand felt very cold, probably from whatever he'd been doing outside. Luce wondered fleetingly if he could do with a blanket.

"Thank you," the stranger said without emotion, and after a quick sip, he set the cup down like it was on fire. A little water splashed up over the edge and onto the wood of the table, but Luce didn't take the time to deal with it. It was only a tiny spill.

"You're welcome," he replied with a shy smile, and he meant it. Although this boy had broken into his room, he wasn't sure any more if it counted as a break-in. After all, the window had been open, and the moon had been there to oversee things...

He'd been about to ask a question which, in his mind, he had deemed very important; his mouth was just opening to say it when he remembered something of equal importance.

"Where are my manners?" he chirped, and he sounded very much like a child imitating his mother, which indeed he was. Said mother, he suspected, would be very disappointed by his behaviour. Clumsily, feeling the stranger's suspicious eyes as he did so, he propped up his pillows against the headboard and scrunched back against them, tucking up his little legs to make more room on the already spacious bed. "Would you like to sit?"

The stranger vaguely snickered at this, but did as suggested, perching on the edge of the covers with an apprehension which seemed incongruous with the brash entrance he'd made. His blue eyes sparkled in the orange lamplight as they flicked from subject to subject, never reaching his face. "Um, thank you."

"Would you like more water?"

"No," he said absently. The answer was definitive.

Luce took advantage of the way his eyes were darting around the room, using it as an opportunity to study him curiously. It was something he couldn't do under the boy's oppressive stare, despite how badly his eyes itched to; he had always enjoyed looking at people, and this stranger was particularly interesting, given the circumstances. Dark attire. Hair that looked like it might be nice to stroke. Luce's eyes were just starting to linger on the beginnings of a beaded necklace which disappeared under black fabric, when he remembered his question.

"Um, excuse me," he piped up. The eyes were on him again, forcing him to talk around the lump in his throat. "Are you - um - the man in the moon?"

"What?!"

Luce, startled, bit down on his tongue. "Sorry, it's just - I, um - never mind, I - you just seemed so - never mind - you're too young anyway - ah, um, the moon -"

But the stranger was smiling.

It was a peculiar smile, one which had very vividly originated from a look of shock; all wideness and angles, childish in a way that felt almost fanatic. It were almost as though the boy in front of him was unused to smiling, and this here was his face's outlandish attempt to overcompensate. The smile was weird, yes, but it was also honest. Entertained and entertaining. Luce, still embarrassed and puzzled, could only gape in reply.

"Don't be silly," said the boy, and the smile diminished with his words. This was a good thing, Luce decided, as, had it continued, he may have begun to look a little creepy. As things stood, Luce could still see the expression playing at his lips, but it didn't remotely unsettle him. In fact, it did something of the opposite. The boy continued: "I'm not the man in the moon. He's much taller than me."

This time, it was Luce's turn to utter, "What?!"

"You heard me," answered the boy, shifting back to sit more comfortably on the bed with a smirk. "Although it has to be said, if he weren't such a busy individual, he'd _definitely _have made this into a personal visit. He likes you."

Luce was dumbfounded. "You mean... he's real?"

When he had been littler, way back when the nightmares plagued him, his mummy had told him stories about the man in the moon. Her storytelling skills had been truly one-of-a-kind. Luce would watch her and be completely mesmerised by her performance; so captivating, so convincing that he'd begged her to continue even when his brain was aching for sleep. Ever since those bedtime stories, he'd been convinced that there was somebody living in the moon, standing guard while he slept. Most of the people he'd told at school had acted like it was a game of pretend, and even his mummy in the end had begun making jokes about his wild imagination, but he knew. He'd always known. And now, there was _proof. _

"Of course he's real," said the boy, with as little significance as if he were merely stating that cookies were sweet. "He's as real as you or me."

Luce wanted to scream '_I knew it!_' from the top of his lungs, but he managed to hold it in, knowing it could wake his parents. Besides, he didn't want to hurt the boy's ears. Instead, he expressed his excitement through a strained little gasp, and said - with as much enthusiasm as he could inject into such a hushed tone - "Are you... his friend?"

"Oh, he's friends with everybody," said the boy, "but technically, no. I'm just an employee; one of many. Since he's so busy, he needs us to help out sometimes. It's our job to come and take care of people like _you._"

He finished the sentence by reaching forwards with his index finger and giving Luce a soft _boop_ on the nose, which of course sent him into peals of giggles. Luce took a minute to get over these. When he was able, he stared up trustingly into the stranger's face, and smiled as hard as he possibly could, hoping to return to him everything he'd made him feel. Behind the crown of blond hair, shot with amber in the lampshade's glow, he could see the window, and through that, the moon. The moon, and all of its inhabitants.

He cleared his throat nervously and looked back at the stranger, who seemed so trustworthy now that he could barely remember his fear. "You're... an angel?"

"Better. I'm _your _angel."

And well, if that wasn't the most fantastic thing Luce had ever heard, then he didn't know what was. With an excitement that he could no longer contain, he bounced closer on the bed and asked, "What can I call you?"

The boy smiled again, a crooked smile, and said proudly, "Mello."

Mello. An angel from the moon.

* * *

**Well, that's it! Thank you very much if you're still here and you've kept with this story thus far; it really does fill me with pride. Also, thank you to anyone who takes the time to review. You are all angels. The next chapter will be up at whatever point in time, but please don't rush me (not that you would); I really do have to focus on schoolwork for the time being. Anyway, yes, thank you.**


	4. CH3: The Test

**Yay, another update! I'm right in the middle of a two-day exam just now, so I wasn't expecting time to write and update, but somehow the fates have made it so. (Luckily, it's an art exam so there's nothing left for me to revise. I just have to get my arse in tomorrow and carry on painting.)**

** This is not the chapter I had planned, but a continuation from the previous. The events I had in mind for this one, which originally I had in mind for the last one, have been postponed **_**yet again **_**because I keep finding more things I want to add, etc., but yeah, I guess that's a good thing because it just means more updates! Anyway, yes, thank you if you are still here and still appreciating this story. Your continued support means a lot.**

* * *

Following their introduction, which had eradicated most - if not all - of Luce's fear, he spent a long while conversing with Mello, who was now sitting cross-legged on his bed. They began, naturally, with the topic of the man in the moon. According to Mello, he was the ultimate guardian angel, except he sometimes found it tiring to look after the whole world at once. To solve this issue, he apparently ran an establishment filled with guardian angels in the making, of whom Mello was markedly the best. Luce didn't doubt that when he heard it, although it did prompt him to ask immediately why their best angel had been assigned to _him_. After all, he was just a child, and although he tried to be good when he could be, he was positive that he wasn't near good enough to have earned this honour.

Mello had smiled at that, shaking his head knowingly from side to side. It was a look Luce recognised from games of Scrabble with his father; he would do the same thing whenever Luce laid out a word which earned him a double-letter score.

"Tell me, Luce," he'd said, slowly and theatrically, "What is the capital city of Russia?"

Luce's eyes widened. "T-There's a test?!"

"Oh, yes," Mello answered, and his smile broadened into a smirk. "I nearly forgot about it, actually. Thanks for the reminder. There's no point in my being here if you don't deserve me, so it's my duty to test you."

Luce gulped as a new and sudden fear alighted in his chest. He was being tested. And with tests, there was always that ever-lurking possibility of failure.

He had always been intelligent; he knew that from his time in nursery when he'd made the best finger-paintings, and from his first two years of infant school. Stacks upon stacks of certificates, star-of-the-week badges, stickers in his workbooks and little teachers' notes supported that. And yet, despite the improbability of it happening, Luce was afraid to fail. The last time - in fact, it must've been the _only _time - someone in his class had beaten him in a test, he'd been devastated, and the other students had mocked him so horribly for being taken down a peg. Maybe it had been jealousy... jealousy because he'd still scored higher than they had. But that didn't help. They were merciless. In the end, he'd hidden himself away in a cupboard and cried, and his mummy had to leave work to come and get him.

He knew, however much it hurt, that he wasn't the most intelligent boy his age, and that the questions he was asked would likely be too difficult. He knew without a question that he wasn't a valid competitor, and yet... he'd only just met Mello, and... and even though he was strange, even though he'd been scary to begin with, even though he was smirking right now like he knew exactly what was on his mind... the thought of another child being greeted by this angel, _his _angel, made his blood boil like nothing else ever had.

Grimly, he fixed his eyes on Mello. The older boy's face lit up with surprise and pleasure as he took in the determination in those eyes. He swallowed and all at once, the fear was vanquished. "Can you repeat the question?"

* * *

The test dragged on for quite some time before Luce found himself feeling too exhausted to answer. Mello had been relentless with his questions, asking him all manner of random things from subjects far and wide; did he know what an atom was, could he recite his six times' tables and was he able to spell _manoeuvre_? Luce stumbled here and there, as any seven-year-old would when asked questions beyond their capabilities. He was well aware of his mistakes when he made them and they caused him to flush a deep pink, yet the more he answered, the wider Mello seemed to smile. It might have been a trick of the light, but his teeth looked pretty underwhelming for what he'd always imagined an angel's teeth must look like. Surely, he wondered in his tired high, they were supposed to be perfect, like the pearly whites you saw advertised at the dentist's. It wasn't that Mello's teeth were bad, but just that they were human. A little crooked here and there, with sharp incisors. He didn't know why he was thinking about this, so he stopped.

As the night wore on, Luce could feel his concentration slipping. In his semi-consciousness, he visualised what it might look like plotted on a graph; a steady downwards slope, where over the hours the level of intelligence dropped and dropped. Upon realising that he was firing questions at a zombie, Mello finally yielded and declared the test over.

Relief welled up inside Luce almost immediately, though the feeling was tainted blue with sorrow. He knew what Mello was going to say next. Knew it and didn't like it.

_Nice try, kid. Not bad at all. Give the second-best guardian angel my regards._

And then he'd up and fly from the window, and Luce would never see him again.

_No. _Luce screwed his eyes up, feeling the gentle burn of tears on their way out, knowing he had to stop them in any way he could. He wouldn't cry in front of Mello - no way. He wouldn't fail the test and cry like a baby in front of Mello. Not a chance.

"Luce?" Mello asked curiously, and Luce felt the warmth radiating from the angel's hand as it hovered over his cheek, hesitant to touch it. "Are you okay? What are you doing?"

"M'fine." Luce wanted to open his eyes, but there was no way that he would. If he did that, he'd cry. There was no way around it, other than to remain like this until he felt the tears creep back to wherever they came from. "If you're gonna leave me, then just do it already."

The hand pressed itself against his cheek and Luce fought against the urge to flinch away from it. Mello's fingertips were soft and reassuring, but Luce was positive that he had no reason to feel reassured. Accepting the feeling would be like accepting a consolation prize, and he didn't want one of those.

Across from him, out of sight behind the churning darkness of his eyelids, Mello coughed quietly and said, "If I'm what?"

"Going to leave me," Luce repeated. The words came out strained and blunt; he could almost see his mummy in his mind, telling him off for bad manners. "Because I failed the test."

The hand didn't move from his cheek. Luce squeezed his eyes shut tighter as he felt the first trickle of tears on his eyelashes. He choked back a sob. This entire situation had warped into a mistake; all he wanted now was for Mello to leave, so that he could sleep and pretend that everything had been a dream.

"Luce?" Mello asked from across the room. He hadn't left yet. Upset, Luce swatted away the hand on his face and replaced it with his own, ignoring Mello's query. His eyes hurt, his eyes hurt, his eyes hurt. "Luce? Say something."

Luce couldn't say anything. He felt like his throat was slowly swelling up with air, and if he opened his mouth, the air would escape in a pathetic bubble of wordless noise.

"Shit, are you crying?" Mello sounded genuinely surprised. "Shit!"

Luce could feel himself trembling and buried his head in his arms, wishing Mello couldn't see. Soon, Mello's hands were on his shoulders, raking over soft skin through thin pyjamas. He was very strong and his nails were in need of a cut. Luce had no choice but to look up.

"Are you kidding me?" Mello said, and he looked aghast in a way that didn't seem remotely angelic. Luce sniffed pathetically, not lifting a hand to wipe the wetness from his cheeks. "You're actually crying? Over this?"

Luce hung his head in shame and sobbed again. Mello shook his shoulders. "Oh, come on. Stop it!"

It had hurt when Mello shook him. Luce couldn't tell if the pain had been accidental, or if the older boy was being rough on purpose. Right then, both seemed equally likely.

"Stop it!" Mello said again, but Luce couldn't. Instead, he hiccupped loudly, and the sobs tumbled free once more, pitiful and beyond consolation. Mello's hands tightened on his shoulders and he glanced at the door suddenly, not that Luce was paying much attention. He wasn't even looking at Mello any more; his eyes were half-shut and blurry with tears, and with his head hung low, a curtain of thick blond hair obscured all but his lap.

Apparently, his almost-guardian angel didn't enjoy being ignored. After a few more seconds had passed and Luce's sobs failed to die down, he felt himself forced backwards against the headboard, colliding with a loud smack. Frightened eyes opened wide into a pair of identical blue, and suddenly Mello was only inches away, pinning him to the wall. His face was dark with anger and he hissed threateningly, "Shut up, or I'll make you."

Luce hiccupped again, faintly. No other sounds disturbed the air after that.

Mello let go of Luce's shoulders and retreated back to his former position on the bed, looking down at his hands with a conflicted expression. Luce shuddered heavily, feeling very betrayed, but didn't say another word.

The silence continued for a number of minutes, before Mello broke it. In the time that it took, Luce's heartbeat managed to make the transition from impossibly fast to what felt tantalizingly slow. His breaths were shaky and he couldn't see the moon any more; it had disappeared somewhere behind Mello's head.

"I'm sorry," Mello mumbled, still looking at his hands. "That was mean."

Luce gave his shoulders an experimental roll, and winced when he felt the bite of pain where his nails had been. "It's, um... I forgive you."

Mello glanced up at him and Luce decided that if he was basing things on appearance alone, then he looked much more like a fallen angel than an angel in all of his glory. Normally, sadness in his mind took the form of a very still and tranquil body of water; something infinitely cold and blue. But the look on Mello's face right then wasn't tranquil, however sad; it looked like someone had taken the water and sent ripples running through it. Luce watched, trying not to show his pain, as Mello took a deep breath.

"You didn't fail the test, Luce," he said eventually, "because I wasn't testing you on your knowledge."

"You weren't?"

"No."

Luce rolled his shoulders again, feeling the burn of bruises yet to come and wishing the pain would subside faster. "Then what were you doing?"

"I was testing to see if you would give up, or if you'd keep trying. I wanted to know if you were like me, and if it were possible for me to like you."

Luce bit down on his lip, feeling somewhat wrong-footed about the entire situation. The way Mello was talking made it sound like he hadn't liked him before; like there'd been a tension between them. He hadn't noticed such a thing. At least, not once the lamp had been switched on. Everything before that was separate.

Mello leaned forward then, and outstretched a thin, bony hand. It was bigger than Luce's hand, stronger, but still small. Gently, he placed it over the sore spot on Luce's shoulder, and rubbed. "I didn't mean to hurt you, Luciel. And I didn't mean to make you cry. I'm sorry."

"Mello," Luce began tentatively, "are you _really _the best guardian angel in training?"

Mello shook his head, avoiding his eyes. Luce felt a small flame of hurt ignite in his heart.

"Why did you lie to me?"

"Because I'm the worst."

Another pause. Had Luce been more like his guardian angel - more like the boy who shared his eyes and his hair - he might've gotten angry. Might've been mad that the man in the moon gave him the worst, that Mello had lied and gotten him all upset. But Luce wasn't Mello, and despite everything that had just happened, he didn't want a guardian angel if it was anyone else. Uncertainly, he spent a moment chewing his lip. Then, he made up his mind.

Without warning, he sprang forwards and threw his arms around Mello.

* * *

**Well, here we are! Another chapter done and dusted. (Well, kind of dusted. I didn't actually edit this one very much.) Next time I'll hopefully get around to adding the details I had planned for this chapter. This one came out slightly shorter than intended and with a completely different series of events, but in all, I'm happy with it. Really, it kind of wrote itself.**

** As for the questions asked by Mello to Luce earlier on, some of them might seem easy, but I'm pretty sure they'd all be horribly hard for a seven-year-old. I know that when I was that age, I wouldn't have been able to answer most of them!**

** Thank you if you've read and enjoyed this, and of course any reviews are always appreciated. Like, loads. But really, thanks.**


	5. CH4: The Truth and the Spaghetti

**Oh sweet, another update! I was beginning to fear that I wouldn't finish this before my holidays were over, and that I'd have to carry it over for months. The thing is, all of my big exams are coming soon and next month, I'm going to have virtually no free time to work on this story. (Which is fine, to be honest, since revision etc. is important, though I didn't want to enter this stage with a chapter half-written. It would bug me.) I decided to add actual times to this chapter, to give it a slightly less dreamy feel than the rest - not sure if it's been picked up on, but up until now I've only been using the sun and moon to describe the times of day.**

** Anyway, here is Angel From The Moon chapter four! I've now worked out a much more organised timeline for this story, meaning that by this point we are something like a third of the way in. Thanks to anyone who's still following this story thus far; your feedback is greatly appreciated. I'm going to stop waffling now so that you can get on. But, yeah, I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

It was regular routine for Luce to rouse early on Saturday mornings, just as the sun was rising like a warm peach in the sky. He'd roll over sleepily in his covers, cocooned like a caterpillar with his hair spread like a halo across his pillow. He wouldn't get up, of course. No - in summer, dawn came at around 5a.m., and his mummy didn't get up until eight.

Instead of waking her, he would reach out lazily from beneath the warm sheets to clasp his water cup. His mouth was always dry in the mornings, always parched. It wasn't pleasant. The water - room temperature and no longer fresh after a night on his bedside table, but by no means undrinkable - coated his throat nicely. Once satisfied, he'd shut his eyes again, burrowing down under the covers to shield his eyes from the sun. It never took long for the sleep to reclaim him, and by the time his daddy started his morning routine before work - between 6 and 6:30a.m. - he would be too far gone to hear him. From then on, he would rest peacefully, until 9a.m. on the dot when his mummy came to chivvy him up for breakfast. Luce never made too much of a fuss about being woken at this time, as by then he'd have had his fill of sleep, and he knew that after he'd eaten, he'd have the day to do as he pleased.

The morning after Mello was not like this.

Firstly, there was the grogginess. Luce was not used to being sleep-deprived, but when you stayed up talking to your guardian angel for hours past your bedtime, it was simply unavoidable. The night had been as warm as any other night in July, and likewise it had been just as short... yet around Mello, Luce had felt a timeless sensation wash over him, almost as though he were living in a dream. The feeling had both lulled and stimulated him, so that until Mello left, he'd barely felt the need to succumb to his exhaustion. It was a bizarre feeling which was maybe half-pleasant overall, with the niceness rising and falling continually with the steady ebb and flow of conversation. At the time, Luce hadn't been thinking about the consequences of his lack of sleep. Waking now to bright sunlight and unfamiliar after-effects, the suddenness of morning hit him like a paving slab to the face.

Luce moaned weakly and rolled over, facing the wall. He didn't want to get up this morning. He didn't want to get up ever again.

It wasn't that he _regretted _the night before, exactly. It had been fun in the end. Although his shoulders were still sore from Mello's thoughtless assault, he had vague memories of a hand on his cheek, and a soft kiss pressed to his forehead as sleep carried him away on its tide. His eyes had been half-closed by this point, and all he'd seen was a thin sliver of moonlight as the window creaked open. He wasn't sure how Mello had gotten out of the first floor window, but the question hadn't seemed like an important one. He supposed that it must have just been magic. Special angel magic, flying him back to the moon.

The only problem was that that same magic - whatever it was - hadn't given him a peaceful night's sleep. And seven-year-old boys, however robust and energetic, did not cope well with a sudden absence of sleep.

When 9a.m. came, it came full-force: the sunlight glaring like an interrogation lamp, his mummy's hands like bricks despite the lavender hand lotion which made them soft. Luce tried his best to bury himself in the covers, even going so far as to shove his head beneath his pillow, but to no avail. After several more fruitless attempts to coax him out, his mummy knelt down beside the bed and stroked a hand through his hair, before saying gently, "Lucie, _plemenite_, are you sick?"

Luce wanted to nod and tell his mummy to go away, but honesty was a compulsion which had always gotten the best of him. "No, mummy. Just sleepy. Can I have longer?"

The soft hand in his hair wasn't feeling any less like a brick. "Don't be silly, dear. You need to take a bath."

"_Please_." A swift kick to the mattress - which resounded with a dull _thump _\- was all he needed to emphasise his point. Through the thick haze of tiredness, Luce heard his mummy sigh.

"Fine. I'll get you up at ten."

* * *

Ten wasn't a lot better, but Luce decided that he could work with it. Maybe he'd feel better with an extra hour inside of him; maybe it would dampen the headache he felt brewing in his forehead. Even if he still felt tired when she returned, it couldn't possibly be as bad as it was _now. _As it was, he decided he must've only gotten... _hmm_... if he fell asleep at something like midnight - no, one - no, half one - then woke briefly at five... that's three and a half hours... and assuming he was able to fall asleep again by half five... and he was woken at nine, so - four and a half, five and a half, six and a half - that makes seven and a half hours in total. That was nowhere close to the ten that a boy his age was supposed to have each night, but with this addition, eight and a half hours sounded just about feasible. If anything, he'd probably just sleep better the next night as a result.

* * *

Bathtime was arduous.

His mummy had done everything she could to make him feel better about the bath: the water had been run just warm enough to feel silky against his skin without being scalding; there were bubbles which smelled sweet and dispersed like snow when he cupped them in his hands and blew; and it was just deep enough to feel encompassing, so that no skin was left cold and prickly with goosebumps. It should have been pleasant. Should have, and yet, it wasn't.

Where he would usually spend a good ten minutes playing with the bubbles, his poor concentration afforded him only two before he grew bored. Where his mummy's hands rubbing shampoo into his scalp tugged gently and pleasantly, his hair follicles felt sensitive, as though they were being ripped and tugged at by metal hooks. Altogether, the situation left him aching to go back to his room. Everything was bad. But what was worst of all, undoubtedly, was his mummy's reaction to the bruises which had blossomed across each of his shoulders.

Luce himself hadn't been thinking about them as he got himself unchanged. It was only when his mummy had instructed him to raise his head, only to recoil with the sound one makes before ducking underwater, that he became aware of them. The bruises weren't dark or even particularly noticeable - no more than a soft purplish murk under the skin - but even so, Sabina Keehl was shocked. She begged Luce for the name of who hurt him, but Luce knew he couldn't say. Not that he could very well suggest that he'd been hurt by accident; after all, the areas were too tucked away to have been easily fallen on.

Instead, as his mummy knelt before him with fingers gently rubbing at the fresh wounds, he remained awkwardly silent, with his mouth pressed into a straight line. It was a mixture of wanting to keep Mello on his mummy's good side (if and when he decided to mention him to her) and the surprise proof that the night encounter hadn't been a dream which kept him quiet. Her questions grew increasingly frantic and Luce could see by the gleam in her eyes that she was distressed, but he couldn't answer. Couldn't. All he could do, by means of fending off the desperate words, was shrug sheepishly and mumble, "I don't know. I don't know."

Eventually, his mummy's pleading died away, and the two remained at level heights in the bathroom; Luce on his feet, Sabina on her knees. Weakly, she pulled him into a hug and whispered into his hair, "Okay. Okay, _svetlost_, I believe you."

And that was all there was to it.

* * *

It wasn't until much later that day - quarter to five, in fact - that Luce made the decision to tell his mummy about Mello's visit. Up until that point, he'd found himself tangled up in uncertainties; uncertainties it had taken to whole day to figure out. First, there had been the question of what to tell her. He knew that whatever he said, he would leave out the part where he had cried, and Mello had lost his temper and given him the bruises. Knew it unreservedly, the same way he knew that wasps stung people, that the sky was blue and raw cranberries were disgusting. But if not that, then what could he tell her? Was it safe to recount the whole story? Would Mello mind? Would he be insulted if he _didn't_?

It wasn't the thought of her knowing that put him off, but more the whole part with him _telling. _He was and always had been an honest boy at heart - he knew it because his Catholic neighbours often complimented him on his purity and goodness - yet there was something about Mello... something which had felt like a secret.

Luce didn't like secrets. Secrets were bitter and slimy things which hid away in dark crevices; secrets were leeches that drained you just from knowing them. It had been his way, all his life, to reject a secret as soon as he stumbled upon it, be it by (tactfully) revealing said secret or begging beforehand not to be told. And yet... this secret feeling... it was different. Despite the small and ugly bruises which decorated his shoulders - the one frail reminder that all of this was real - there had been something subtly private and magical about the night of Mello's visit. Luce found himself feeling like the whole ordeal had been so special, so whimsical and weird, that it felt almost as though the only way to preserve it was in silence. It was as if he somehow knew that telling would take away the magic; that once the words had left his lips, the night would be tarnished forever. Luce didn't want it to be tarnished, but he wanted to tell his mummy. His only concern was that he wouldn't be able to do the story justice with his dull, infantile words.

Surely, he wondered to himself as he mused, Mello would sneer at any attempt he made to explain... but then, he hadn't sneered when he had answered falsely in the test. No, Mello wasn't like that, not when he really thought about it. The more he'd spoken to him the night before, the more he'd come to realise that beneath his fantastic and frightening bravado, there was a gentle individual not unlike himself. Subtly gentle, like the glow of a flame placed for safety beneath a ceramic hat; he knew that were it left out in the wild, it could light the fire that burnt the world to the ground, but on its own it was soft and strangely enticing. Yes, Luce had been content to watch Mello's fire that evening, and he had known - for the most part, anyway - that he was safe. And so he had watched, watched the flame as its light licked at every surface, watched as it had danced its strange, shivery dance. And now and then, the flame had sputtered and jumped a little higher, and he had been frightened, but it had been alright.

Mello had been gentle to the best of his ability that night, yet he had also been intelligent. Intelligent enough, Luce decided, to have sworn him to silence in advance before telling him of the man in the moon, were it a secret. Given that he hadn't, he assumed that it was safe for him to reveal such things to his mummy.

(And besides, it wasn't as if he were in any danger of having her _believe _him.)

It was his faith in Mello's intelligence, and in his gentleness, which afforded Luce the confidence to confess that evening. And - perched with his small legs swinging over the edge of the kitchen counter, watching onions sizzle in the pan steered by his mummy's hand - confess he did. For once he had begun, he found himself unable to stop, and the words tumbled out of him in a waterfall of excitement. Words are a most fanciful currency, you see; unlike with monies, they do not decrease in value as they increase in abundance. They only grow and expand, and how much they are worth depends on how intently people will listen to them.

"Mummy?"

"Yes, Luce?" Sabina was in the process of adding sliced tomatoes to the frying pan. Luce couldn't be sure what she was making them for dinner, but it smelled good.

"Do you remember that darkness I was telling you about?"

Sabina glanced up from her cooking and smiled at him. "I told you, _moja sladka, _you were imagining things. It was just a nightmare, nothing to worry about. Why do you ask?"

Luce swallowed, only to discover that his throat had grown lumpy and tight. It wasn't going to be easy explaining without giving away his proof; while one half of him itched for her to know that his angel was real, the other half badly didn't want to tell her about his temper. "The thing is," he said carefully, choosing to look at the sizzling vegetables instead of her face, "he visited me again last night."

"Oh?" Sabina let go of the pan momentarily to reach behind where he was sat. Noticing her difficulty, Luce scooted forwards a bit, so that she could withdraw a tub of spices from the rack behind him. "Did you tell him to leave you alone, like I suggested?"

Luce shook his head, watching her shake some flecks of seasoning into the pan. "No, I didn't tell him that. Listen, mummy-"

"You didn't wet yourself this morning," she interrupted, half by accident. She stopped a moment in her tracks to look at him with concern. "But you did look awfully pale... Lucie, do you want me to get in touch with Kerry again?"

"No!" Luce said quickly, "No. No, I, uhm... no, thank you. That's not what I was trying to tell you about. I'm fine."

Sabina flashed him with a worried smile before returning to her work, swapping the spice tub for a salt grinder and adding a few twists of it to the mix. "Okay, I believe you. But you will tell me if your nightmares start up again, won't you?"

"Yes, mummy." The worried look in her eyes didn't subside, but it was muted. Luce spent a few minutes fidgeting on the counter before he said anything else. "Actually, what I wanted to tell you was that the darkness wasn't as bad as I thought."

"It wasn't?" Sabina was back to her cooking now, absent-mindedly adding bits of this and that, jiggling the pan up and down to ensure that all the contents were suitably mixed up.

"No, he wasn't. He let me switch on the lamp and then he turned out to be an angel."

Sabina smiled at this. "A guardian angel?"

"Yes!" Luce enthused, "How did you know?"

"I guessed," replied his mummy, and she tipped the contents of her pan into a neighbouring saucepan bubbling with tomato sauce. "And that's good news, isn't it? It means he isn't going to scare you any more?"

"_Nothing _will be scaring me _ever again_," Luce continued on, and he bounced up and down a little bit, causing his mummy's free hand to shoot out protectively and still his knee. "Oh, mummy, you should've met him... he was so cool! He asked me all these questions, and... and he told me about this big angel guild, where they assign different angels to look after everybody, and..."

The story went on for a while, Luce never running out of things to say, and Sabina decided to humour him as she continued preparing their meal. After maybe ten minutes had passed - in which Luce had continued to babble about the angel guild, bringing the moon into it now - she placed a lid over the saucepan and left its contents to simmer, before reaching over to hoist some spaghetti down from a high shelf.

"Are you still listening, mummy?" Luce said then, as she had just started filling a fresh saucepan with tap water. He'd been talking with such excitement that he'd gone pink in the cheeks, and it made Sabina smile. It had been a long time since he had spoken to her with such zeal about his dreams.

"Of course I am," she responded. She placed the saucepan of water onto the hob where the frying pan had been. "Please, tell me more. Tell me about your angel friend."

"His name's _Mello_," Luce said, pouting slightly. "I already told you that."

"Sorry, _ljubica_." Sabina had to smother her giggle. "Tell me more about Mello."

Luce crossed his arms, kicking at the counter defiantly with his heels. "Well, I've already told you almost _everything _about him."

"Is that so?" Sabina smirked, and when he nodded, her smirk widened. Noticing that the saucepan full of water was beginning to simmer, she added a pinch of salt to it and begun filling it with pasta. "What does he look like?"

"Oh!" Luce's face lit up when she said that, like a firework had just burst in his mind. "Oh, did I really forget? Oh, mummy - mummy, he looks like you!"

"But I'm a girl," Sabina answered, though the smile was still on her face, curling softly. She begun prodding at the spaghetti with a wooden spoon, trying to soften it in the water. "I thought you said Mello was a boy?"

"He is," Luce told her, adding with a slight hesitation, "I think. It's just that he has your hair, all blond like yours was in the old photographs, and he has your eyes too. Bright blue eyes!"

"So what you're _really _saying," Sabina said, lifting the spoon from the water so that she could use it to tap him on the nose, "is that he looks like _you._"

"Yes - no - well, sort of."

"How old is he?" she asked, and this time, there was a little genuine curiosity in her words, behind the obligatory interest which she feigned on behalf of her imaginative child.

Luce thought about it. "Mm... I think he's maybe twelve?"

Sabina's spoon dropped to the floor. When she made no move to retrieve it, Luce gave her a funny look, thinking to himself that he would've gotten it for her, were he tall enough to climb down from the countertop unassisted. "Mummy?"

She cleared her throat. Her voice came out faint and scratchy. "You said that he looked like me?"

"Yes," Luce nodded. "But that's not all! No, he _sounded _like you, too - he had your voice! It wasn't as strong as yours, but it was definitely the same. Like, English-ish, but not English, like he came from the same place as you do."

Sabina didn't appear to be listening any more. In its saucepan, the tomato sauce began bubbling violently, enough to make the lid tremble. On the floor, a small puddle was forming around the wooden spoon. Ghosts of words were visible on his mummy's lips, but none came out audible. Luce tried again. "Mummy? Are you listening?"

Sabina was definitely no longer listening. Luce knew that, but still, he tried, for he had never seen his mummy pull that face before. "Mummy?"

Weakly, a hand came out to clutch at her arm. "Mummy?"

Still nothing. "Mummy?"

* * *

**Aaaand that's it for now! A lot of this chapter is fresh out of my head - again, I've barely edited - so please let me know if you spot any horrendous and unforgivable typos. I can't promise that chapter five will be out anytime soon, though I am hoping to release it sooner or later and this story will not be discontinued. Thank you again to anyone who actually takes the time to review (so basically, just Kitten Rebel); it really brightens my day, so, uh, yeah. I will update when I update, and, uh, have a nice week!**


	6. CH5: The Angel Made Of Stone

**Boom! We have officially made it out of the preliminary chapters and into the main body of the story. From hereon-in, expect a steady build-up towards the story's climax. **

** Thanks to all of you who reviewed the previous chapter (Kitten Rebel, XxKalypsoxX and the anon); your feedback is greatly appreciated and a large part of what motivates me to continue with this story. Also thank you if you're shy but read this story anyway. I hope you like this chapter, and, well... I haven't really got much to say about it in advance, so I guess I'll just have to upload it and see what you think!**

* * *

Much to Luciel's dismay, it took several nights before Mello visited again.

Granted, he realised - once he heard the familiar scuffling at the bottom of the window - that was probably for the best. Were he to come by every night, he wouldn't get any sleep, and then every morning would feel as dreadful as the first. Mello seemed to have worked this out for himself, as he made no attempt to explain the past three days of no-show.

Luce didn't tell Mello about his mummy's reaction to him. He didn't want to say anything which could potentially jeopardise his visits, and a disapproving parent sounded like something which could do just that. In three days, he hadn't been able to figure out what it was that had made his mummy stop so dead, with such horror in her eyes, at the description of Mello, though he had decided after some deliberation that it couldn't have been the bruises. He'd been very careful to avoid making Mello sound capable of such things, erasing the quick-temperedness from his personality without even thinking about it. It became apparent to him that, since Mello's arrival, he had very quickly learned how to lie.

No word had been said over dinner that evening about what it was that had startled his mummy. Luce was curious, but he didn't want to ask her, just in case she got the same far-away look in her eyes again. Instead, he'd eaten with his head down, and he'd tried his hardest to focus only on the spaghetti in front of him. Although aromatic and tasty, his choice in distraction hadn't been the best; the texture of the sauce was odd due to the neglect it had undergone, and it severed as a constant reminder of how their conversation had ended. His mummy didn't speak much over dinnertime either. She kept eyeing his daddy like she was waiting to tell him about something. Luce wished he knew what.

* * *

As Mello's dark silhouette appeared in the window, Luce slid out of bed and bounded over to open it wider. Excitedly, yet quietly, he was repeating the same words: "Mello! Mello, you came! Mello! You're here! Mello!"

Mello feigned a heavy sigh as Luce tugged eagerly at his arm, clambering over the windowsill with far less difficulty than he had before. In part, this was due to the added room which Luce had provided, although it may also have been down to practise. It looked, from the theatrical exasperation on his face, as though he regretted coming; a small glimmer of worry sparked in Luce's heart, but was immediately quenched as Mello fell to his knees on the carpet, pulling him into a warm, tight hug. The force of it came as a surprise to Luce, who hadn't been expecting anything at all. The bruises on his shoulders - now faded into a sickly yellow-green - had taught him that Mello's temperament made him stronger than his stature should've allowed... and yet, he hadn't realised that this strength could be used to do more than just hurt. The hug felt clingy, in a heartfelt sort of way, and also very unpractised. It matched his smile.

Luce hugged back as strongly as a seven-year-old child could hug, and as his arms wrapped themselves around his back, he heard a quiet laugh against his hair.

"Did you miss me?"

The conversation was long and it flowed like they'd known each other for years. To begin with, Luce had been too shy to express his opinions to Mello; he thought that perhaps if he talked too much, or said the wrong thing, he might get annoying and leave a stupid impression. But the longer their conversation continued, the more he found he couldn't help himself, and soon the two were engaged in a deep discussion which spanned a number of subjects Luce hadn't really been educated on before.

For the first time, Luce found himself understanding the basis of politics; he knew loosely what it meant when his parents said _conservative _and _labour_, and how he couldn't vote for another eleven years. He found out that Mello was indeed twelve, which would've left him with only six years to wait, had he not been an angel from the moon. (Though in Mello's opinion, the voting age in the UK should most definitely be lowered to sixteen. And Luce, liking the idea of getting to have his say two years sooner, agreed.)

Mello made sure to praise Luce often during their conversation. Nearly every two minutes some compliment would slip out, some casual reminder of what an intelligent seven-year-old he was. "And you're not _snooty _intelligent, either," he'd said, at one point in their discussion; "You're normal about it. You just say smart stuff just because it's what you think, and it doesn't seem like you're showing off. That's refreshing."

Once, at a point in time when the moon had been half-obscured by a brief curl of cloud, the flow of their exchange was interrupted by the creak of Luce's parents' bedroom door opening down the hall. Mello had been in the middle of saying something about schools, but fell into immediate silence in response to the sound. Luce's breath hitched a little, and he felt suddenly nervous. As the room was filled by the sounds of his mummy - sleepily padding across the landing, in the direction of the bathroom - he watched Mello with uneasy eyes.

His guardian angel was sitting curled up on the bed, exactly as he had been before, yet now, everything about his disposition felt different. Statuesque.

_Off._

His back had straightened dramatically and one eyebrow was quirked, and his mouth was hanging open, a frayed edge where his sentence had cut out. Wordlessly, the two sat and listened. The bathroom door shut with a gentle slam. There was a silence. They listened harder.

The look in Mello's eyes, Luce thought as he waited, resembled the look in his mummy's, from the day before; the only difference was that this look was brighter, harder, and more alert than faraway. It was obvious from this look alone that he did not want to be caught, though why not, Luce couldn't fathom. He didn't ask.

Luce held his breath as his mummy once again passed by his room, a sudden new fear flaring up from within his chest. What if she made it to his door and saw his nightlight? What if there was a soft orange light filtering out across the carpet, from under the crack in the door? What if - seeing this light - she came to the conclusion that he'd had a bad dream, and decided to come and check if he was alright?

Despite the absence of a reason, he'd decided that if Mello didn't want to be spotted, it was probably best that he wasn't.

Fortunately, his mummy continued walking. As the footsteps receded, the danger in the air filtered itself away and Luce found himself exhaling, a soft puff of breath which left behind a jittery feeling. Opposite him on the bed, Mello still looked tense, though his shoulders had slumped a little as he'd heard Sabina walking away. Luce reached out and gingerly brushed a hand over the angel's forearm, which he'd positioned like a support beam across his lap. "What's wrong?"

His voice came out high and timid, a gentle and cautious whisper. Something about the sound of it caused Mello's expression to loosen slightly; what had been the precise, still and ethereal face of a marble statue was now softer, more human, like it had been moulded from clay. Luce watched the small Adam's apple bob in his throat before he replied. "What?"

Their eyes met. Mello's were still wide and alight with danger. Luce thought of how he'd described them to his mummy - how he'd described Mello to his mummy - and wondered if there was some unspoken law that he should've been aware of, some confidentiality which prevented parents and guardian angels from interaction. He wondered if his decision to tell his mummy about Mello had been stupid. Weakly, he whispered a little louder. "What's wrong? Is my mummy not allowed to see you or something?"

Mello looked away. He took a moment to blink the danger from his eyes, then looked back. "No," he said. "She's not."

"Oh." Luce felt disappointed, but also relieved. If what Mello said was true, then they'd just avoided a very hairy situation. And yet... something didn't feel right. He'd been fantasising ever since he met Mello about introducing him to his parents, seeing how they got along. Surely, he thought, they'd get along well (pretending that his mummy's panic had been a part of his imagination). Surely they would, because they both had Luce's best interests at heart. He'd been taking Mello's word for a lot of things that evening, but this was one step too far into the dark. This rule warranted a reason. Luce felt that he deserved to know it.

Deciding it was a valid query, Luce tightened his grip on Mello's forearm and said imploringly, "Why not?"

Mello's arm tensed under Luce's hand, and Luce thought he might move to withdraw it, but instead he remained where he was, static and clearly uncomfortable. He watched with questioning eyes as his angel shifted around, never once meeting his gaze, and waited for a reply, suddenly wishing that he hadn't asked. He'd thought it a simple question, and yet here, Mello looked utterly thrown. The reluctance seemed to radiate off of him in waves.

Finally, after a silence as slow and awkward as a toddler in a sack race, he cleared his throat to voice a response. "I, uh... the thing is, I'm not supposed to meet adults."

This seemed sensible enough, but Luce still wanted to know why. He looked at Mello pressingly with wide blue eyes, silently motioning for him to elaborate.

Mello looked trapped for a moment. Then his eyes lit up with what Luce guessed was recollection and he said quickly, "I'm not allowed to meet adults, because if an adult sees me, I'll turn to stone."

"Is that possible?" Luce replied in a horrified gasp.

"It is," Mello answered - and his shoulders relaxed as he said it - "if you're an angel."

* * *

**And there you have it... the lies are building up! That's all I've got for the time being. Notice: As of now, and until midway through June, this story is **_**officially on hiatus. **_**I'm sorry to do this to you just as I'm starting to get into the flow of it, but my big exams are coming up and I need the next few months to A) prepare for them properly and B) actually sit them. Expect things to resume in summer, and luckily, the next chapter is one I think most people will consider worth the wait. (Hint: it contains a certain stripy friend of Mello's.)**

** Another thing with this chapter is the politics. It wasn't a very big part of it, but in case you're from somewhere that isn't the UK and you're confused, Conservative and Labour are two of the leading political parties over here. Conservative is more of a right-wing party, whereas Labour's ideas are more left-wing and socialist. Oh, and the voting age over here is 18. Not important, but I thought you might want the context.**

** Anyway, yeah, thanks for reading and please leave your feedback. It really helps. **


	7. CH6: The Traitor's Friend

**Hia! Sorry, I know it's been a long time but I've been really busy revising for my exams and this is kind of the first opportunity I've had in ages to update. I've been working on The Plural Of Moose as a distraction, to try and keep things active on here (and just because it's fluffy and fun), but this is my main baby and trust me, it's been growing in the shadows. (That sounded weird. Did that sound weird?)**

** Somehow this chapter ended up gigantic; there was supposed to be more but I realised that if I didn't want to rush, I'd have to cut it into chunks. I think that this update makes up for the radio silence that's been lasting for a while now, because - as promised - we get to say hello once again to dear young Matt. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

You could spend an entire day sat with a notebook in your lap, twiddling a black biro between your thumb and forefinger, yet by the time sunset arrived to turn the pages a crisp shade of honey, I doubt you would have been able to list a single reason why a seven-year-old boy might be in need of a calendar.

Even Luce himself, being a fairly studious child, did not know why his parents had decided to present him with one. It was not a sophisticated affair - not large or elaborately designed with one famous piece of Van Gogh artwork for each month, not covered in important-looking times and dates, like the one his parents used in the kitchen - but a small, squarish flip-up deal with a long list of dates and lines where he could write in what he was going to be doing. His parents had probably been hoping for him to make some friends in the New Year, so that he might make use of his calendar arranging playdates, but no such luck. Luce was talkative and friendly when approached, but few children in his class ever approached him, and he wasn't the proactive sort who would go out and approach them first.

Still, he liked his calendar. It wasn't sophisticated - each month decorated in a pastel colour, with illustrations by the artist of his favourite storybook, about a stuffed bear and a firefly - and it was, for the most part, void of events. The only things he could remember carefully printing on the lines were his birthday, his mother's birthday, his father's birthday and the one birthday party he'd been invited to by a friend. (Said party ended up being a disaster. He left before the games really began, sobbing because some of the other guests had pulled his hair and he became overwhelmed by this horrible feeling that nobody liked him, really.)

But it was nice to look at sometimes. And useful.

Situated just within his reach, it had become useful for a very specific purpose.

* * *

As the sun and the moon continued on in their never-ending race across the sky, a pattern began to emerge in Mello's visiting habits, which Luce used his calendar to carefully document. He couldn't leave a big mark, of course; that would alert Mello that he was being recorded, or worse, his parents that the visits hadn't stopped. (He hadn't brought up Mello with his mummy again and she'd stopped seeming concerned about it, and his daddy often didn't have time to talk to him in depth about his "fantasies," so there was no reason for Luce to be afraid of discovery, though his last conversation with Mello concerning the subject had left him slightly rattled. If possible, he wanted to minimise all chances of his parents encountering him and turning him to stone). And so, instead of writing a giveaway M on every date which Mello visited, Luce instead used a ball-point pen to delicately press a little dot into the corner, where only he w9uld notice.

One night, Mello would be there, and the next night, he'd be gone. The night after that, he would return, and then some three nights later, he'd come again. The pattern looked like this: _dot, miss, dot, miss, miss, miss, dot. Miss, dot._

* * *

And so the weeks wore on.

Soon enough, July melted into a sweltering yet blustery August, which settled - following a few violent thunderstorms - into a warm and hazy September. When October fell, and the nights once again became longer than the days, Luce had expected Mello's visits to lessen in frequency too; it seemed unlikely that his angel would want to visit him in such unwelcoming conditions. And yet, still, despite the darkness, despite the chill of the oncoming Winter, he continued to come.

As the darkness began to swallow their visits, Mello would read to him from the orange light of the lamp, his voice a soft and velvety lull through the cold and the dark. Luce would listen until he was drowsy, and Mello would flick off the light, peck him on the cheek and leave the way he came, taking care to draw the window lower as he did. Luce would always wait until Mello had been gone for what he felt was several minutes before creeping out to close the window in full. He disliked the cold of late Autumn almost as much as he disliked the dark of it. (Yet, he remained ever grateful for the protection of the moon.)

It was on one such visit, positioned just on the cusp of November, that Mello noticed a particular drawing pinned up on Luce's wall, half-hidden beneath several others. Luce, being an imaginative child (though not imaginative enough for his angel to have been a figment of his imagination), often liked to draw. In the corner of his room, there were many colouring sets, several boxes of pencils and his favourite tin of crayons. As such, the wall beside his bed had become covered with his artwork; sketchy portraits of his teachers from school, animals, trees, anything he felt interested by. A few times, he had attempted to draw the moon, and once or twice, he added a couple of characters grinning out from behind it. But the drawing which had caught Mello's attention - the drawing he reached out to, asked if he could hold - was very simple in its nature, something nearly every child would come to draw at some stage in their early years.

A wonky outline of a house, complete with square windows and a curly puff of smoke making its exit from their chimney. Beside it, on a green strip of grass, two adults holding hands; one with a long silvery-blond plait, the other with browner hair and splotchily-crayoned stubble. To their left was a smaller figure, with blond hair and a big smile. Luce. And then, slightly further, hovering off the ground, a larger child, also blond, with wings, and the hand which wasn't holding Luce's pointed upwards towards the moon. Mello.

"You can keep it, if you want," Luce had said, upon noticing the stillness which had overcome his guardian angel. His blue eyes scanned the paper like he'd never seen anything like it before, and there was a glossiness to them that Luce didn't fully understand. His grip on the page was somehow both tight and gentle, which in a sense, perfectly matched the expression on his face; he was caught somewhere between emotion and a detached, tentative fascination, one which left him very, _very _still.

He looked up at Luce's words. "Really?"

Luce nodded. The scene in the drawing was one he'd drawn more than once; even though this was his best copy, he was happy to give it away. He could see from the smile on Mello's face that it was worth it.

* * *

Though the information may have come as a surprise to Luce, he was not the only person keeping track of Mello's routine comings and goings. Every night upon which Luce's calendar would earn a new marking, another entity would stir from beneath its duvet cover and withdraw a thin, dog-eared exercise book from the depths of its school satchel. Every night upon which Luce would be lulled to sleep by Mello's storytelling, a yellow spotlight would capture the dust in the air as it projected down onto paper, and across that paper, the date would be recorded.

And every night, the biro would be pressed down on the page a little harder; every night, the hand gripping it would squeeze a little tighter. Whispers of words would ghost around the dark shell of a room; a room which did not exist in the mind of Luciel Keehl, but was very real, and only half a mile away. There was a hand-drawn checkbox beside every date written in the notebook. And the biro would rest there - poised - until its owner heard the fumbling sounds of Mello's return.

* * *

Mail Jeevas had come to Wammy's House a quiet and even-tempered boy, with a fondness for computer games which allowed for extraordinary patience. The skill which had initially drawn the House's attention to him came in the form of his ability to - if occupied, say, by a handheld - sit in the same spot for hours and hours, without once lifting his head. It was a devotion which could override hunger and thirst, a skill which had often had negative physical consequences (for example, the repetitive strain injuries which he had acquired in the base of his neck and his right thumb), but a skill no less. Combined with the intelligence which had allowed him to pass the Wammy's entrance exam, it was enough to have gotten him significant attention. Attention which he would rather not have, personally, were it not for the perks; that was, the video games he was supplied with in order to exercise and further examine his skill.

In all the years he had resided at the House - the alkaline shadow with the power to neutralise the acidic blond-haired boy - very little about him had changed. He still found it easiest to think when channelling his focus in one direction, and it was this skill, tried and tested over the years, which had shaped him into an introverted way of life. Despite possessing the social skills which allowed for confidence and free communication, he had learned to feel a preference towards conversations one-on-one. He could still sit almost motionlessly for hours at a time, provided that his handheld didn't run out of power. He was still patient, still even-tempered. Mostly, that was.

As he heard the telltale rustling on the other side of the curtains, Mail dragged his biro through the checkbox with force enough to dent the next few pages.

* * *

He clicked off his torch. A cold rush of air flooded the room as the curtains billowed back, and then, there he was; crouching on the floor, his so-called friend, alias-Mello.

Matt quickly shut his eyes, worried for a second that some light would reflect off of them and he would be discovered, lying awake in the dark. As inconspicuously as he could manage, he pressed the exercise book - still open - into his chest, and slid it cautiously under the covers. He'd never been caught before, but then, he could never be too careful. One loud rustle timed to coincide with a particularly loud movement of Mello's might be excusable, but Mello wasn't deaf; he'd hear him if he wasn't quiet enough. With this in mind, he also slowed his breathing, figuring that someone with a mind as sharp as Mello's would know the difference between the breaths of a sleeper and someone who was wide awake.

He'd become so focused on the sounds audible through the gloom that his ears instantly pricked at the sound of his friend's footsteps. On what had become an ordinary night of this suspicious new routine, Mello would change quietly where he stood, and the only sounds that he made came from the soft friction of his clothing and the dip of his mattress as he clambered in. There were never any footsteps. But tonight - tonight, yes - Matt could hear them, could hear the soft padding turn into soft thudding as his friend tiptoed his way from rug to floorboards. Floorboards meant that he had wandered beyond the beds, between which the rug was laid out. Floorboards meant that he was still active, still doing things - potentially leaving again.

Matt swallowed back a noise which would've given him away and peered curiously at Mello through the curtains of his eyelashes. His friend was but a shadow in the darkened room; black upon black, with a pale crown of hair which Matt could use to track him as he moved.

When he stopped, he was stood close to the door, but not facing it; no, his body was angled towards something else, something on the wall. Matt shifted a little, hoping to get a better view, but to no avail. He knew what was there - Mello's pinboard, symmetrical to his own, which hung on the other side of the door - but _why _Mello was facing it, and in the _dark_, no less... he had no idea.

"Mel?" he whispered through the gloom, trying his utmost to sound sleepy. The shadow, positioned in front of the pinboard, flinched. "Mello? S'that you?"

"Go back to sleep, Matt."

"Mel, what are you doing?" Matt persisted. He was hoping that he wouldn't sound too prying with his question; Mello was clever and he doubted it'd take much for him to realise that he'd waited up. In order to better cover his tracks, he was trying to make himself sound narked in a bone-tired sort of way. Hopefully, a late-night complaint at all the sudden movement and noise (though in fairness, Mello _was _being quiet) wouldn't seem too out-of-character, and he'd get away with it.

"_Sleep_," came Mello's sharp reply, but beneath the irritation of the command, he sounded tired too. These late-night disappearances, whatever they were, had been gnawing at his energy levels ever since they started; by this point, Matt doubted it would surprise him remotely if it turned out he'd been sneaking out to donate blood to a local vampire ring. (Aside from the obvious surprise that would come with learning vampires were real.) Mello shuffled around a little more, taking a small step in the direction of his wardrobe. "I was just, uh, getting a jumper. Bed's cold."

_Pants on fire_, Matt thought to himself, but said nothing. He wasn't ready to confront his friend about this yet; he still needed to find the words, the precise arrangement of words he needed in order to convey everything inside of his head. All the pain and all of the confusion. Because yes - he was hurt by Mello's recent behaviour, and he was confused. Mello was a deceptive person by nature and Matt knew that he'd lied to him before, but never had he done it so _obviously. _Never had he acted in such a blatantly secretive manner. Although the boy had said nothing, Matt knew that the late-night disappearances were a secret he was not allowed to be a part of. And it stung.

Maybe if it hadn't been having such an effect on Mello, he wouldn't have minded, but in truth? The difference in character - which had started only a few months before - was staggering.

He was still Mello, of course. Still the despondently seething second, still the ill-tempered boy who hit things when he got impatient and had the broken knuckles to prove it. He still kicked Near's toys over when he walked past and still ate an excess of chocolate. He still studied meticulously for hours, forgetting mealtimes and foregoing sleep only to fail, always, at the last hurdle. Yes, fundamentally he was still the same _person _\- it was just something in his emotional state which had changed.

Matt knew without asking that whatever it was Mello left the Orphanage late at night to do, he enjoyed it. It was the gleam in his eyes which gave him away; the slightly giddy gleam which lit him up as he ate his breakfast the next day, despite the purple smudges beneath his eyes. It was the difference in his expression when he thought no-one was looking his way; a look which, when Matt was able to catch it, usually felt vacant and disappointed, but had lately turned into a private sort of smile.

All good changes, if you were to discount the permanent cloud of exhaustion which followed him about his business. Matt was happy that Mello had found happiness, happy that he wasn't hollow any more, but at the same time, he felt impossibly sad. Between studying, sleeping and pursuing whatever this wonderful new secret was, his friend had reserved very little time for just the two of them. Matt could feel himself getting left behind - could see Mello's back shrinking in the distance - and while a part of him was happy to grin and wave him away, another part wanted nothing more than to grab him by the collar and yank him back into his life.

* * *

Instead of voicing his emotions, Matt decided he'd play it slowly. He'd been growing increasingly pissed off with Mello as summer had faded into Autumn, and he didn't want to let him off the hook again tonight... but he knew that starting an argument he might not win wasn't the way to go about things.

Irritably, he mumbled, "Sounds like you were getting more than a jumper."

A clever comment, he decided. On the surface, it was a sleepy jab about the noise it required to retrieve an item of clothing, but to someone with a secret to keep, he knew it would scratch a little deeper. He watched Mello's silhouette tense slightly, still stood there in front of the wardrobe, and smirked from beneath his duvet.

"Matt, what are you talking about?"

"Oh, nothing," he replied offhandedly, finishing with a yawn that he wished he'd planned, as it punctuated his sentence quite effectively. Feeling confident, he stretched out a little in bed, forgetting about the notebook still tucked against his chest until he felt the worn edges of pages brushing against his stomach.

"Matt."

Mello was still standing in front of the wardrobe, though Matt could tell now that he was facing him. He finished his stretch, tucking his limbs back into the safety of his bed, before replying, "What? We're talking now? I thought you wanted me to go back to sleep."

He couldn't help it; he sounded sour. Just sour enough for Mello to have picked up on it.

"Do whatever you want, Matt."

And with that, he had returned to the pinboard, none-too-subtly either. Matt propped himself up on one elbow and watched, suddenly very mad that he wasn't even trying to be sneaky any more. Who did he think he was? Did he really think it was okay to be like this? To shut him out this flagrantly, and not even say two words to acknowledge it?

Clenching his jaw in frustration, he watched as Mello carefully withdrew something from beneath his shirt - _a raggedy cylinder - no, it's a rolled-up sheet of paper_ \- and smoothed it out. Whatever it was, he was handling it with care, and this reminded Matt that there _was _a reason behind all this, however little he understood it. The lies had made him angry, yes, combined with the fact that they never really hung out any more - but there was more to this than his side of the story. That paper had come from somewhere.

"Mel."

Mello started, almost crunching the paper between his hands, and turned to shoot Matt a glare over his shoulder that he couldn't see very well through the dark. His voice came out hushed, but mad. "What do you want _now_?!"

Matt swallowed back the bitter comments brewing on his tongue and sat himself up fully. "I want answers."

"Answers?"

"Yeah." His voice came out a little shaky, like he was stepping out onto thin ice, but he carried on regardless. "I want answers, because you've barely made time to talk to me since this summer. You're sneaking out at night and you won't admit you're doing it, and you haven't told me where you're going."

By this stage, Mello had stopped dead in front of the pinboard, paper still caught between his two hands. He swayed slightly in the darkness, and it seemed to take a long time before he was able to gather up the energy to speak. When he did, his voice came out scratchy and quiet. "I'm not getting out of this, am I?"

"No, you're not."

Matt finished the sentence with a quiet _hmmf_, before sliding the exercise book out of his way and rising from the bed. It was a chilly night and the pyjamas he wore were only thin, but he felt too overpowered lying down. If he was going to do this properly, he needed to be level with Mello, and Mello was standing up.

Across the room from him, his friend sighed. "Can I put this up first?"

Matt nodded. "Sure. What is it?"

"It's a picture."

"Of?"

Mello was silent. Matt could feel himself faltering as his friend turned away, once again to face the pinboard. Of all the things he could be hiding...

...Matt knew from years of living in this very room with Mello that very few things were deemed important enough to make it onto that board. In fact, he had only ever seen two items reside there permanently. Once upon a time, a lesson timetable had joined them there, though it had only lasted a few weeks before Mello had torn it down angrily. Eight years old, infuriated because he had found out that Near had memorised his own schedule; determined to match the feat, if not somehow do better.

The first item Matt had ever seen pinned up on that board - now faded with age, but still as bright and prominent as a carnation in springtime - was an empty sweet wrapper. The sort of thing nobody would keep; not unless they were sentimental, a hoarder or just a sucker for swirly pink patterns, and Mello was none of those things. What separated this wrapper from any other of its kind were the words on it, scrawled across the paper in black marker: "_Don't give up._" Mello had been crying, the afternoon when he'd been given it. Flipping through an old textbook and having to repeatedly wipe his cheeks on his sleeve. The message had settled him immediately.

A memoir, left over from the one and only time they had been in the presence of L.

The second item was one Matt felt much more familiar with; one he could explain if necessary, without having to guess at anyone's intentions or be confused himself. A photograph. The sort of thing any normal child might have albums full of, but for Wammy's children was considered a rarity. Mello and Matt, aged 10, tipping salt crystals into a model they'd made for a chemistry project.

The picture had been taken just at the right moment: just in time to capture the look of determination on Mello's face, to see Matt's awkward smile as he realised that they were being photographed. Just seconds later, the experiment before them had spat hot acid at his chest, burning a little blob into his collarbone which remained to this day. It hadn't hurt a lot, but it had caused quite a fuss and Mello had gotten mad because it meant that they lost points on the grounds of poor hazard-checking. Not a great memory, in all, but Matt still liked it; liked it because in that moment, Mello seemed happier than he typically did. He assumed that that was why the photo had been kept, though he could never be certain.

And now there was a third item on the wall.

* * *

When Mello was finished, he turned around slowly, with such a tenseness in his shoulders that Matt felt a lump form in his throat. He regretted asking about the picture, but it was too late to undo the question now. Mello was going to have to answer him, whether he wanted to or not.

A pause. Matt could feel the tension stretching between them like it was their experiment: bubbling dangerously, gearing up to spit. He didn't want to fight Mello, yet there was an inevitability about this silence that led him to believe it was the only possible result.

Mello cleared his throat then, and when Matt looked at him, he realised that his friend had grown up this summer. He was still a child, yes. Still petty, still the short-tempered brat he'd always known and liked. But there was a seriousness in his expression, a sort of strange, dawning responsibility in his eyes as he looked at Matt. Defending the pinboard as best as he could behind his back, he drew a long, unsteady breath, then exhaled.

"Matt, I've been dishonest with you."

* * *

**So this was the cut-off point I chose in the end. I know, I know - I meant to extend the chapter, but I realised once I got here that it was already pretty fucking big, and I just thought... nah. Nah, it's silly to try and cram it all in; I want to detail this part properly so I can't just skate through it.**

** I hope you enjoyed this chapter, of course I'd like to thank you for reading and also if you reviewed last time around. Reviews always brighten my day, please leave one if you can spare the time. As for updates, I can't promise anything speedy (hiatus resumes for the next couple of weeks, just while I'm getting my last few exams out of the way) but you know... they will happen. I'm not leaving this baby unfinished. **


	8. CH7: The Blood and the Water

**SURPRISE, BITCHES!**

** I know I told you this had been discontinued. I wasn't lying. For a long time, I hadn't felt the motivation to continue with it, so I thought - rather than forcing myself to slog through something I wasn't into and end up writing it really badly - I'd just stop. And I did, and it worked. Only recently, inspiration for this story has been rekindling, and so, like a magician, I produce from my sleeve the next chapter of Angel From The Moon!**

** I hope you enjoy this one. I know I did.**

* * *

It took a long time for Mello to cover everything. Matt had figured it would.

That was why they were where they were; sitting opposite each other on twin beds, breathing out of time, the only real light in the room being that which glinted off their eyes. As the explanation wore on, it was Mello's eyes which Matt paid particular attention to, watching them through the gloom as the boy's lips moved, as the words came tumbling out; watching them as they grew brighter, shinier with tears.

It had been a long time since he'd last seen Mello cry, and he wondered if tonight was the night he'd break that streak. Part of him hoped that that was the case, if only to reassure him that he was still close enough to his friend to be allowed to see what others were not. Another part of him, a guilty part, was fidgeting as the boy spoke, pleading silently that the tears wouldn't fall... both for selfless reasons and selfish ones. If Mello cried, then that meant he was sad, which naturally - being his best friend - Matt didn't want. Yet, there was more to it than that. If Mello cried, he'd feel sympathy; his pity would take over and he'd have to forgive him for his lies. He didn't want to feel guilted into doing that; it didn't seem right.

Mello's words came out very slowly, hesitantly; a low and scratchy drone which seemed heavy with remorse. That alone was enough for Matt to feel like forgiving him; to draw a line under the bad blood between them and get up to give his friend a hug. Because that's what they were, wasn't it? Friends. And friends forgave each other, even when they were totally out of line.

Yet he couldn't. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to, but... he just couldn't. Perhaps this time, the circumstances were different - this time, oh, they were _so much bigger _\- yet Matt couldn't shake the feeling that he'd been here before. In this room with Mello, listening to him quietly apologise, excuse himself, stumble over his words and return Matt's hug fiercely once his apology had been accepted. Only those apologies had never really been accepted.

No - he gathered them up like mail coming through the letterbox, retreated with them into the recesses of his mind, and over the years he had accumulated many; his mind was bubbling over with old pain, old grudges, like great bulging sacks of unopened letters. Yet he hadn't accepted any of them. Only nodded in defeat, understood that there was no second option and reluctantly made amends, if only for the sake of not losing his only friend.

He still felt bitter knowing that time and again, Mello would break his trust, say sorry with tears in his eyes and the next day, they'd be back to normal like his trust had never been damaged, like he didn't have to fight every time Mello rejected him for better things not to grab the boy by the shoulders and shake him until he understood. He felt bitter knowing how he'd caged himself within his own personality; Matt the pushover, Matt the sympathetic, the understanding, the patient, the _doormat. _He hated how Mello had grown to rely on his forgiveness; how he knew that if he failed to grant it, he'd not only be betraying his character but rupturing one of the longest-standing foundations of their friendship.

* * *

When Mello was done explaining - finally done, at what could only be 4am, just as the sky was lightening into an inky November blue - he gave a trembly sigh. His knee had started jogging up and down some way into his explanation, though now it rested still, tense and uncertain. Matt knew that this was the part where he was supposed to say, "It's alright." The part where he was supposed to roll over in submission, let Mello feel better about himself. The part where he was supposed to switch off his own feelings, supposed to push them aside and make like they didn't matter for the sake of keeping peace.

But after everything Mello had told him tonight...

...after everything he'd let slide over the years...

...after every unaccepted apology...

...he couldn't do it.

Mello waited. He looked expectant at first, beneath the nerves. Though his hands were clasped tightly together, nails biting into the delicate skin hard enough to leave marks, he was eyeing Matt through the darkness with a shaky certainty. It was like he knew he was about to be forgiven; like after years and years of learning the variables, rejection was an anomalous result that only existed in dreams. Matt watched his eyes glisten with pretend worry, worry designed to provoke his kinder side, not knowing himself what he was going to do. Would Mello's confidence in his forgiving nature hold up - or would it backfire?

As the seconds passed, the surety in Mello's posture began to dissipate. Matt watched in silence as his relaxed display of fear began to unravel, revealing a new and very real flame of fear underneath it. His knee began to jog once again, to a quick and irregular rhythm. His hands clasped together tighter and he started biting his lip. Even in the dimness of the room, there was no missing the white sheen across his eyes, the sheen of tears building.

After a few more seconds of torturous silence, he croaked out, "Matt?"

The one-worded question sent a painful jolt through Matt's chest. Momentarily, he felt like hitting himself. What was he doing? This wasn't some game; Mello hadn't just told him some trivial secret which, after a few months, would cease to mean anything. No, the truth this time was painfully real, full of long-term implications. Right now, all Mello needed was his friend. Not necessarily to approve of what he was doing - Hell, Matt hadn't even stopped to wonder if he _did _approve of what Mello was doing, lying to that poor child about being an angel - but just to say something about it, to acknowledge the fact that he'd confessed to it. If he needed proof that Mello valued their friendship, it was staring him in the face. Sure, he lied to him sometimes. Hid things from him, tricked him, left him out and forgot to talk to him for weeks at a time. But he also trusted him, and for Mello, that was not an everyday thing. Matt had the unique privilege of seeing Mello at his weakest moments, and this was one of them.

He wasn't crying yet, but that one-worded question - that simple, desperate question - relinquished the last of his dignity. Right now, Mello was as fragile as a butterfly, and he wasn't about to be the one to tear off his wings.

* * *

Slowly - hesitantly - he lifted himself from his bed, crossing the metre and a half of worn, patchy rug which led to Mello's. He stopped once he was standing in front of him. Curled in on himself, golden hair threaded with light and shadow, he looked startlingly small. Maybe it was because the Orphanage had ordered his pyjamas a size too big, hoping he'd get a growth spurt this year. Maybe it was because he felt ashamed.

Matt put a hand on his shoulder. Immediately, his head shot up. His lower lip was wobbling now; he was seconds away from caving into the tears.

"I'm still angry with you," Matt said firmly. The tears wouldn't dissuade him; he'd decided tonight that he was done with being a pushover. Where before he'd thought that standing up for himself and remaining friends with Mello were mutually exclusive options, he had now found the perfect balance between the two. "I hate that you keep all these secrets from me. I know that it isn't because you don't trust me, because otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation right now. But it still hurts, and I wish you wouldn't do it."

Mello was holding his eyes open, trying not to blink. "I'm sorry. Really, Matt, I am. I just didn't know how to tell you. I never do."

"Okay," Matt said. "We can work on it. Okay? You can write me letters if you don't like telling me face-to-face. Or you can wake me up in the middle of the night and tell me in the dark, like this. We'll find ways to make it easier. Alright?"

Tentatively, Mello nodded.

"Good."

"A-And about Luce," Mello said softly. There was real worry in his voice as he said it, like he was expecting Matt to slap him, though Matt was doing his best to keep both his voice and the grip he held on his shoulder gentle.

"I, uh, I don't know about Luce," he replied feebly. "I think... the things you're telling him are wrong. It's not good of you to make up stories. You're going to hurt him in the long run."

"I guess," Mello said. His head lowered; Matt could no longer see his eyes.

"Still," he continued, unnerved, "I understand why you're doing it. He's your family. You want to spend time with him and this is the only way you can do it under your parents' radar, right?"

Mello gave a feeble nod and whispered, "Mm."

"Honestly? I think you're going to have to come clean eventually. The longer you drag out the lies, the harder it'll be to stop them. You're smart enough to already know that," he said quietly. Gently, he shifted onto the bed, putting an arm around both of Mello's shoulders. "Still, there's something you don't know. Something it's my job to remind you."

Mello sniffed and glanced up at him through his fringe. "What's that?"

"It's that you're the best person ever."

For a moment, silence filled the room. Matt felt a slight heat rise to his cheeks after saying that; he was a good talker, but he wasn't big on emotional confessions. The only reason he was doing this right now was to cheer up his friend, to remind him that they were on the same side. And that they would be, no matter what.

The noise Mello made in response was somewhere between a scoff, a laugh and a sob. "Yeah, _right._ You've seen the scoreboards. I'm not the best at anything."

"I never said you were the best _student_," Matt corrected him, doing his best to shove his own feelings back down into his stomach. "You're not the best student - though you are a pretty damn good one. What I said is that you're the best _person_, and the way I see it, that's _far_ more important." A pause. "Think about it. You care so much about Luce that you sneak out every night to see him, risking getting in trouble with the Orphanage, risking getting in trouble with _me_. You aren't entirely honest with him, but your intentions are kind - you just want to be there because he's your brother. If he ever finds out the truth, I doubt he'll stay mad at you for long. He might be annoyed about the whole angel thing being bullshit, but nobody could stay disappointed knowing they've got _you _for a brother."

Mello shivered. It was only then that Matt realised he was crying. "Thanks, Matt, but you don't mean it. I'm not a good person. I lied to you, I lied to Luce. I'm not good and I'm not smart and I'm amazed you're even trying right now."

Matt sucked in his breath. "I hate what they've done to you here."

"What?"

"I wish you thought better of yourself, Mel," he amended. "Maybe you only see the crap because they taught you to look for errors and eliminate them. But come _on. _Like I said, being smart doesn't matter. If you were more like Near," - Mello tensed - "then Luce would hate you. Near's intelligent and all, but he'd make a horrible brother."

"You think so?"

"Sure I do. He's no fun at all."

Mello lifted a hand to wipe at his eyes. Then, he looked at Matt. It appeared as though he was looking at him for the first time, with a wonder and curiosity which had never graced his expression.

"I know someone who'd make a better brother than me," he said slowly. "You."

Matt flinched backwards. "What?"

"Just listen to yourself," Mello continued. "You're doing it right now. This is what a proper brother sounds like. Not whatever crappy excuse I'm supposed to be. You - you're _better _than me, Matt."

The words seemed to hurt him on their way out. There was something disbelieving in them, too - it was as though he'd accused him of being a traitor. After a moment, his expression crumbled once again. Matt didn't know what else to do but pull him into a hug, even if doing so only confirmed the notion that he would make a good brother.

"Mello," he said gently, "You need to stop comparing yourself to people. You don't need to be the best at something to be good at it. I know you don't believe me, but it's true. It's only this stupid Orphanage that teaches us different."

"Shut up, Matt."

"Really, I mean it. Maybe I do make a good brother, but what the Hell does that matter? Do you think Luce is going to love you any less because you aren't perfect? I haven't met him, but I doubt he's that much of a jerk."

Mello mumbled something incoherently into his shoulder.

"What was that?"

"...Luce doesn't love me."

Matt pulled out of the hug, holding Mello at arm's length. "Are you kidding me? Of course he does!"

"No," Mello said sadly. The statement was painfully resigned; it was like he'd already accepted it as fact. "He doesn't. He loves the magical angel who visits him from the moon. Not me."

"Maybe you're right. But he _will _love you. Eventually, when he finds out. He'll love you because you're ridiculous, and you make up imaginative stories, and you're rough with him and kind to him at the same time, like you're supposed to be. You don't need to be an angel to do any of that."

Mello opened his mouth to protest, but Matt interrupted him.

"How do I know? Because I love you."

He paused there, waiting to see if he was about to get punched in the face. Evidently, he wasn't. Across from him, Mello's face was shadowed but his eyes were wide, wider than he thought he'd ever seen them. His mouth hung open slightly. He was at a total loss for words.

"I don't have a blood family, Mello," Matt continued tentatively, "but that's never been much of an issue for me, because I've got you. You're my family and I love you. And if Luce doesn't... well, then that's his loss."

It felt like a lifetime before Mello spoke back to him. "I love you too. I'm sorry I lied to you. And I'm sorry I'm being such an idiot about this. I'll tell Luce the truth - soon, I will. Whatever happens after that, I guess... I'll just have to deal with it."

Matt squeezed his shoulder. "You won't have to deal with it alone."

"I know. Thanks, Matt."

* * *

As the first glimmers of pale grey sunlight began to permeate through the half-open curtains of their room, the two of them slept deeply, huddled together under Mello's covers. They'd be tired at breakfast, but that didn't matter yet. Right now, all that mattered was that they were friends again, proper friends. They were closer than they had been in months. No longer troubled by Mello's distance, Matt settled into the crook of his neck comfortably. And Mello - no longer plagued by the same number of secrets, with the knowledge that he'd be supported however things turned out - was able to relax his tight muscles. Still insecure, but not as insecure as he had been yesterday.

* * *

**Well, I hope you liked it! It was nice writing in this style again, after so long. I know that the descriptions tend to bulk out the word count, but damn it, I enjoy writing them. (Also, if you're wondering about the chapter title, it comes from that one quote about family. Generally people know it by its shortened form, "Blood is thicker than water," and use it as an argument to defend loyalty to family over friends. However, the full quote is, "The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb," - meaning the exact opposite. I am a firm believer that friends are the family you choose for yourself, and this chapter kind of represents that.)**

** Please leave a review if you enjoyed this, the next chapter should be on its way at some stage... and although I naturally will be returning to the Keehl household, there will be more of Matt in chapters to come!**


	9. CH8: The Open Window

**New chapter! My motivation for this story **_**really has **_**been renewed. I doubt it'll last much longer, though - college resumes soon and that puts me in the position where I'll have to prioritise my class work over my fanfictions. (Sorry in advance.)**

** Still, I hope you like what I'm giving you here! A lot of character exposition in this chapter, some delving back into Mello's childhood. This chapter was originally meant to be longer, but I found a fun place to end it and it was already long enough so I decided to chop it in half. Enjoy!**

* * *

As a child, Sabina Keehl had held a real adoration for Christmas. Every year, as the season grew closer, she would feel it like an oncoming wave, ready to lift her off her feet and place her back down gently in the New Year. She loved the excited bustle that Christmas brought with it, loved the spice and the glitter and the way people always seemed to put aside their differences. One year - a fond memory - her mother had brought her to the live nativity display at Ljubljana's Franciscan Church. The lights there had dazzled her.

These days, she still had a weak spot for Christmas, though the season came now with its own personal taint. Every year, she felt it; a darkness, a soul-sucking darkness that swallowed up most of her pre-Christmas excitement and replaced it with only a gruelling pain. She carried on as normal, of course. She couldn't let Luce down at this time of year. He - just as she did, when she was his age - perked up significantly as the festivities drew closer, pointing enthusiastically through the windows of their car whenever they drove past a decorated house, humming carols under his breath. She had to keep functioning for him. He deserved to love Christmas. So even with the darkness clawing away at her, she would smile when he brought home pictures he'd made at school with glitter and glue, would tell him about the nativity at Ljubljana's Franciscan Church whenever he asked about it and idly laugh when he begged for them to go there.

As it was, she didn't have the money to travel back to Slovenia yet, though she was saving. Maybe if she gave Luciel the best Christmas experience she could... maybe then the darkness would leave her be.

It was a nice wish, though one she knew could never come true. Even if time really did take the sting from the darkness's tail, even if years of happy memories with Luciel taught her to love the Christmas season again, there would always be one day she felt hesitant to get out of bed for. One terrible day when the darkness was at full strength, when it swarmed around her and left her with no escape.

The 13th of December.

On that day, no matter how brightly Luciel smiled to her over breakfast... no matter how hard her husband tried to console her, no matter what music she played to try and raise her spirits... it would find her. It would stab at her like a knife. On that day, a year's worth of repressed self-loathing would fly at her all at once, reminding her of what she did.

Reminding her of Mihael.

No matter how good a mother she was to Luce, she could never forget the child that came before. Could never help wondering where he was now, alone, with no family to celebrate the season with. Was he happy? Did he have good friends? She hoped so. The thought of him spending his birthday, and then Christmas, in sorrow left her feeling raw with pain.

She knew she had no right to feel any sort of way.

If Mihael felt unhappy, it was her fault.

Hers and Elias's.

...But she couldn't help the way she felt.

* * *

On the evening of the 12th of December, Sabina got herself ready for bed with a heavy heart. Luciel was already tucked in, curled up in his bed like a beautiful breathing doll. Next door, in the bathroom, she could hear her husband brushing his teeth. She thought about going to him for comfort, but decided against. Elias was a stoic man when he wasn't entertaining Luce, often carrying with him an awkward, shy vibe. She knew that he would gladly put an arm around her, knew that he shared her regrets for the past - especially looking back on how he used to be - though there was nothing he could say to comfort her. It wasn't quite his fault. He'd never been very good with words.

Instead, she decided to wait until he too was asleep. It never took him long. She would lie on her back, staring up at the cracks in their plain white bedroom ceiling, and he would toss and turn for a little while beside her, until eventually his breathing slowed and he became still. He was a very heavy sleeper, so there was no danger of waking him up.

Once she felt sure it was time, she slid out from beneath their thick Winter duvet, crept across the room and retrieved her dressing gown from its hanger. Her mother had sent it over from Slovenia last Christmas. The material was thick, a warm weight over her shoulders, and wearing it felt comforting, almost like a hug. It had been a long time since she'd last hugged her mother. The woman hadn't liked Elias, the broad-shouldered German man who didn't talk much at family gatherings, and she hadn't wanted the two of them to move to England. In fact, they'd barely spoken since. There'd been a period - briefly, before Sabina realised she was pregnant with Luce - when she'd considered leaving her husband and coming home, and the two had grown closer then. Now, though, their levels of communication had dropped back to their average, which was disappointingly low. Though she longed for her mother's gentle advice, the dressing gown's comforts would do. There was no way she'd consider taking off for Slovenia and breaking Luce's childhood apart.

Slowly, cautiously, she tiptoed across the landing, headed for the bathroom. She made sure to lock the door behind her. When she entered, her own pale, thin-lipped, tired-eyed reflection greeted her in the mirror. She avoided her own gaze, dropping to her knees on the tile before the cabinet: rustic and wooden, one half child-locked to keep Luciel from mistakenly getting at the cleaning chemicals inside.

Sabina had been keeping something hidden from her son. Yes, she locked the cupboard so that he wouldn't find the bleach, but that wasn't the only danger stowed away inside it. Now alone and safe behind the locked bathroom door, she produced from within the cabinet a polished wooden box, just a little smaller than the average shoebox. The lid had been hand-carved back in Slovenia with floral and paisley designs; for a moment, all she could do was admire it. Then, surreptitiously, she withdrew a golden key from her dressing gown pocket and twisted it in the box's lock.

It opened with a pop.

* * *

Alone in his bedroom, Luce was at a loss for himself. The sky outside his window looked dark and heavy, starless where fat clouds hung across it, and a cold wind tore through the streets beyond, sending gusts into his room. He wanted badly to close the window and warm himself up, yet he knew he couldn't. According to his calendar, Mello was supposed to come tonight.

Anxious and fidgety, he waited, rotating between lying curled up in bed, getting up to peer out at the dark streets from his windowsill and staring accusingly at his calendar. He felt very chilly, despite the thick felt pyjamas he wore. His mummy had offered to make him a hot water bottle while she was tucking him in, though like an idiot, he'd said no, not wanting to risk her arriving with it and turning Mello to stone.

_Mello._ Where was he? It had to be getting late by now. Maybe he was being impatient; his guardian angel had never let him down before. Yet the longer he waited, fiddling with a loose button on his pillowcase, the less certain he felt.

* * *

Sabina only allowed herself to open the box once a year.

Usually, it was on Mihael's birthday. She doubted, however, that opening it a day early would make much of a difference. Inside the box, a strange assortment of objects greeted her. A lock of delicate blond hair, tied with a blue ribbon. A folded-up ultrasound. A yellowing envelope containing six crumpled photographs. A couple of wonky child-drawings, crafted in blunt and broken crayon on the backs of unwanted letters from their bank. And a plush toy rabbit, small enough to be held in a child's hand, its soft yellow fur faded into a dingy grey.

It was the rabbit which Sabina picked up first, turning it in her hands, smoothing over its worn head with her thumb. Mihael had liked this rabbit a lot; he'd been holding it in one of the six photographs, waving it in the air like a trophy. It hadn't been his favourite, though. She'd made sure to pack those for him, the night they said goodbye. He hadn't had many toys as a child, so she'd felt guilty for keeping this one back, though as she'd moved to place it in his suitcase, her hand had hesitated and she hadn't been able to do it. She'd needed something to remember him by. Besides, if things went her way, the new guardians of Mihael Keehl would provide him with more than she ever had.

Gently, tenderly, she placed it back into the box. She couldn't remember its name, if it had ever been given one. Pressing her lips together to hold in the sadness, she moved on to the lock of hair, running her fingers along it without lifting it, for fear that the tie wouldn't hold it together. It felt just like Luce's hair. Just as soft, and the same gorgeous yellow his had been at that age. Idly, she wondered what his hair looked like today, whether it had paled or darkened, or maybe even been dyed. She knew for a fact that she would never have allowed Mihael to dye his hair at only twelve, though she didn't have a say any more. For all she knew, he could be unrecognisable.

"Happy thirteenth birthday, _svetlost_," she whispered to the empty room. "Mummy's sorry."

* * *

Sabina was halfway back across the landing, snuffling back tears, when a loud clatter stopped her in her tracks, followed by a startled squeak. It had come from Luciel's room.

Her instincts were not slow. Within the second, she was there, standing in the centre of his bedroom. Luce was scrunched up in a ball against his headboard, covers drawn up to his chin. He looked mildly panicked to see her; he kept glancing from her to the window. She followed his gaze.

The window. It was open. Not wide, but too wide for December all the same. Perhaps whatever clatter she'd heard had originated from there? Sabina spent a moment staring before marching towards it.

"Mummy, stop," Luce whimpered.

Sabina halted a metre from the sill. "Lucie? What's the matter?"

"You shouldn't look. It's dangerous."

"Dangerous?"

Luce nodded meekly. Sabina felt perplexed. She'd never seen her son look this worried about something; it was like he'd just seen a trailer for a horror film by accident. Worse than that, it reminded her of _Mihael. _He used to pull that exact same face, whenever he sensed that Elias was about to fly into a rage. Gingerly, she backed away from the window, watching it without blinking the entire time. She wasn't a superstitious woman. She didn't believe Luce's silly stories about monsters, but she felt wary all the same. She couldn't think why Luce would open the window of his own volition, unless it had something to do with that story he'd told her about his imaginary angel. And the thing about imaginary angels was that they couldn't make things clatter.

"What happened, _moja sladka_?" Sabina asked quietly, once she'd reached Luce's bed. She knelt down beside him, reaching out to stroke his felt-clad shoulder, and felt him shivering slightly. Just how long had the window been open?

"Nothing," Luce said, visibly hiding something. He pulled his covers higher, an unconscious attempt to put something between them. "I was just imagining things again. And, um, I opened the window because... um... it was a part of the game. I'm sorry."

"Luciel Keehl," Sabina said sternly, momentarily taking her eyes from the window to fix her son a look. "If I find out that you're lying to me, I won't be angry with you. It is very important right now that you tell the truth. What happened here?"

Luce cowered back in shame. "I'm sorry, mummy, I can't. It's against the rules."

"What rules?"

"If you looked at him, he'd turn to stone. I had to get you away from the window."

Sabina's eyes darted back to the window. _Him_? The fictional angel child? The one who looked and talked just like...

"Stay there," she said to her son in a low, dangerous voice. Trembling slightly, she stood and walked towards the window. Whatever it was out there, she had to see it with her own eyes. Luce attempted to stop her, hands darting out from beneath his duvet cocoon and snatching at her dressing gown, but his arms were too short and he didn't make it in time.

"Mummy," he whimpered in protest, "Stop, please."

Sabina braced herself when she reached the sill, before pushing the window open wider and leaning out.

* * *

**Cliffhanger! Sorry, I know I'm an ass. I just wanted to do something special for you. The next chapter will be coming along at some point, though again, I can't promise when because college, college, college.**

** Thank you so much if you reviewed the previous chapter (kylo on AO3, I'm looking at you); your words actually make my day and it feels so nice to know that someone actually enjoys my writing. Please review this chapter too, I worked hard on it - and generally, the more feedback I get, the more motivated I am to carry on. Apart from that, have a good week!**


	10. CH9: The Trellis Conspiracy

**Here we are again! I'm really banging these things out at the moment, which is alarming because they're long and rather complicated. I present to you today a chapter of **_**pure evil**_**, because I'm a nice writer like that. (I did really enjoy writing this one though. It was super fun and I'm proud of the turnout.) I guess that being away from this story for so long gave me the chance to flush out all of my stale feelings towards it; now I can continue on with a cheerful, rejuvenated approach.**

** Please review and I hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

Mello took a deep breath. That had been close.

He hadn't been having a good evening to begin with. There'd been a detention after class for hassling Near, which in itself wasn't a huge handicap; all it meant was that he'd had to do his homework in the noisy detention hall instead of the library, and people tended to shut up around him anyways. Still, it'd forced him to run across campus in order to make it in time for his meet-up with Matt. As an apology for ignoring him so much over summer, he'd agreed to start hanging out with him more regularly. That, for Mello, meant scheduling time. What had bothered him before about seeing Matt was the way it messed with his timetables, the way it always led to one assignment or another not being up to scratch. Now, though, he knew he had to make more of an effort if he wanted to keep his best friend - which he badly did. So he'd compromised. He'd found a way to timetable Matt into his life. Today's slot had been the hour before dinner, as well as during.

Matt's face had lit up in a grin when he saw him. It was nice to be welcomed with such enthusiasm, though he couldn't help feeling guilty; he knew that the look came from Matt's fear that maybe he hadn't been planning on showing up after all. The two had messed around in their dorm for a little while - it was too cold to go outside - and when dinner ended that evening, Mello felt almost sad. He'd missed hanging around with Matt like this. A part of him wanted to forego the hour of study he'd do before dashing off to see Luce, but he couldn't do that; he had to keep his grades up. Miserably, he'd resigned himself to his history, revising what he knew of the French microbiologist Louis Pasteur.

Then, _it _had happened. It being Linda, barging into their dorm uninvited and screwing the whole timetable up. Mello didn't mind Linda, generally. She was a very good artist and, on the occasions when he'd been paired with her for group work, he'd found her to actually be pretty funny. The problem was that she could get really loud, which made her an absolute nightmare to study with.

"Hellooooo," she'd said in greeting; something only Linda ever seemed to do.

"What are you doing here?" Mello had grumbled in retort, not looking up from his research on Pasteur's anthrax experiment.

That was when Matt sat up on his bed. He'd been fiddling with one of his handhelds for the last half an hour, though now he switched it off, swinging an arm under his bed to pull out a ring-binder full of notes. "I invited her. We're comparing notes on Collision Theory."

Mello screwed his eyes up in frustration. "You already know Collision Theory, don't you?"

Linda leaned over Mello's desk. "And _you _already know about the anthrax vaccine, but you're still researching it. Honestly, it's like you're paranoid." She straightened, making right-angles with her arms in a horrible robot impression. "_Must - study - everything. Must - not - miss - a - detail_."

Mello had looked at Matt for help, but he was sitting cross-legged on the bed, smiling benignly. Mello felt a wave of anger sweep through him. He liked Linda. He loved Matt. It bugged him that they were studying together; it felt like Matt was betraying him. Of course, he couldn't blame him for wanting the company of other people when his best friend was hardly around, but still. It bothered him in a possessive sort of way.

"Come on, Linda," Matt said, once he could see that Mello had had enough teasing. He opened the ring binder. "Let's get on with it."

"Trying to get rid of me faster?" she joked, skipping over to join him on the bed.

"Nah, just rescuing Mello," he shot back. He flipped through the pages.

Mello returned to his work, practically glowing with jealousy.

* * *

As it turned out, trying to study with the two of them yammering on in the background made it very easy for him to lose track of time. Before he knew it, a whole hour had passed; he should've been heading to Luce's half an hour ago. Since it would take another thirty minutes to get there, he was going to end up very late. Annoyed with himself, he stormed out without bothering to make up a cover story for Linda.

When he'd arrived at the house, things had only gotten worse. It was hard to climb the trellis that led up to Luce's window; it always had been. In the pitch-black of December, however - and with the bulk of the house casting a shadow over the rungs, out of range from the street lamps' sickly orange glow - hard became an understatement. Mello made it maybe a foot off the ground before the blasted thing came free from the wall, resulting in a loud clatter as he landed, half in a flowerbed, half on the driveway. Upstairs, from the open window, he heard a startled squeak.

_Shit_, he'd thought. _If anyone else in that house is awake, then they definitely heard that._

In a panic, he scrambled for cover in the nearest place he could see; beneath the family car. There, he waited with bated breath. He didn't want to risk leaning out from under the car's protection and accidentally meeting the eyes of a parent, so he stayed. The longer he lingered, though, the more nervous he became. How long would he have to wait? Would he have to stay there until early morning? He had a test next morning... forget the test, he was letting Luce down. And if his parents didn't get the trellis repaired, then he wouldn't be able to see him again. That would be awful. Internally he cringed; what would Luce think about this? Would he be mad that he hadn't come tonight?

All thoughts stopped when he heard it: the sound of the front door bursting open.

* * *

Mello's blood turned cold. He held his breath. Around the corner, he could hear hushed voices, footsteps heading his way. He wanted badly to shuffle further underneath the car, yet he couldn't; his terror had frozen him to the spot. In agonising silence, he waited. Soon, two sets of feet appeared in his eyeshot. His mother's, clad in slippers, fragile ankles exposed to the world. And his father's, the very same that must've kicked him so many times as a child, he lost count. Would the man still kick him now, after the radical change of heart which had allowed him to raise Luce scratch-free? Would they want him to stay, or to leave? What would they do?

Slowly, he lifted his hand, bringing it up to cover his mouth. His heart was hammering so violently in his chest, he was sure that they'd be able to hear it. Too afraid to blink, he watched with wide eyes as the two pairs of feet moved around the scene of the broken trellis. Sabina let out a small shriek when she saw it.

"It's - it's _real_!"

"What's real?" Elias sounded mildly aggressive, though he wasn't directing the aggression at her. It took Mello a second to decipher the sound of his voice, to register the intensity in it as concern. "Sabina, what's going on?"

"Luce has been telling stories," she said, in a panicked whisper. "He told me - that he'd been seeing someone - an imaginary friend - or, I _thought _he was imaginary -"

"You mean there's been a _stranger _breaking into our house?!"

"N-No," she choked out, "No, not a stranger, a boy who looks like - like _Mihael._"

She fell silent. Mello - shaking, suddenly filled with incomprehensible emotion at hearing his name on his mother's lips - watched from beneath the car as Elias moved over to her, until he was standing close enough to (presumably) pull her into his arms. Promptly, she started to cry.

"We can't allow this to continue," Elias said quietly.

"No," Sabina whimpered.

"We have to do something about it. We need to talk to Luciel."

Mello felt his heart jump in panic. Apparently, Sabina shared the feeling, quick to yelp, "We can't tell him?"

Elias quickly backtracked. "No, we can't tell him. We just have to - warn him. Against this friend, whoever it is."

"Luce thinks he's an angel," Sabina whispered. "H-He's been staying up late, I think. That's why he's been so tired in the mornings. And he keeps opening the window, Elias, in the middle of the night - it's December, he's going to catch a chill - and then there were the bruises... oh, Elias, one morning he had bruises... I'm so stupid..."

Her words dissolved into sobs. As Elias muttered comforting words, Mello cursed himself yet again. He'd given Luce bruises? It must've been on that first night, the night he gave Luce the test. He must've grabbed his shoulders too hard or something. Oh, what kind of brother _was _he?

"I wish you'd told me about this," Elias was saying, as Mello came back into focus.

"I know. I'm sorry. It's all my fault."

"No it isn't," said Elias. "It's ours. Mostly, it's mine. But we'll fix it, okay?"

"How? Someone's been visiting Luce at night - possibly even - _you know _\- and - and -"

"We'll get Luce to start shutting his window."

Sabina laughed. The sound bordered on hysterical. "Get him to _shut his window_? He'll never agree to that! He'll wait until we're asleep and then he'll open it again!"

"Then we'll put a lock on it," Elias said. "Or else - we'll say something to convince him that he needs to keep it shut. Maybe scare him a little. I don't know."

"_Scare _him? Are you mad?!" Sabina half-yelled. After Elias _shh_ed her, most likely for the sake of the neighbours, she continued in an angry whisper, "Elias, I don't want to traumatise our son... not this time... unless..."

"Unless?"

"We could..." she sounded nervous. After a moment, she ventured cautiously, "We could play along with his story. He likes my stories. We could tell him - we could lie to him and say - that his angel friend is secretly a demon. Pretending to be an angel."

"Do you think that that would work?"

"It would if I did it," Sabina affirmed with confidence. She still sounded a little teary.

Mello had done his best, over the last two years, to keep his feelings about his family largely apathetic. He'd grown sick of feeling pained when he thought of his parents, the man and woman who hurt him and then left him on his own. These days, the only emotion he felt towards any of them was affection, reserved only for Luce.

Now, though? Now, he felt his heart break.

His parents knew that he might be out there. Knew that the strange intruder to their house could potentially be him. Maybe it had even entered one of their minds that he was _here_, listening in on their conversation. And yet, they were shutting him out. They were shutting him out, well and truly, with no way back in.

First, he was angry. Then, he thought, _what if they're right?_

He hadn't been a good brother to Luce, whatever Matt had had to say about it. Sure, he'd done the little things. He'd tucked him in and told him stories, kissed him goodnight and ruffled his hair and joked with him and praised him and taught him stuff. But where he'd had successes, he'd also had many grating failures. He'd made Luce cry. He'd bruised Luce's shoulders. He'd yelled at him, frightened him, and worst of all - he'd _lied _to him. Oh yes. He'd woven a ridiculously cruel web of lies. While a part of him had been prepared to try and unravel them, at some point - with Matt's reassurance - he knew now that he couldn't do it. His parents didn't want him to, for their child's sake. Not even _he_ really wanted to.

Maybe it was best that Luce fell for the new lie, and really did believe that he'd been a secret demon all along. He'd grow up and decide he'd imagined it, made up the stories, and that the bruising had been nothing more than a dream. He might feel resentful at first, that the angel he put his faith in turned out to betray him so coldly. But in time, the good memories would be the ones that stuck out. The ones of a holy force watching over him while he slept, the protector he created, who came from the moon.

He knew that Sabina was a good storyteller, but he also knew that Luce was intelligent. His mother's words of warning might not be enough to convince him of Mello's secret evil. And so, he thought to himself, if he really wanted to be a good brother to Luce, he'd have to go along with this plan. To protect the happy little boy from the family disaster that was himself.

Lying flat against the cold gravel, crying silently as his parents wandered back inside, Mello made up his mind. He was going to be the demon they wanted. Even if it hurt - even if it meant Luce could never see him again - he was going to do it.

He was going to say goodbye soon.

He was going to save Luciel from himself.

* * *

**...I am so sorry. But come on, this story had to take a horrible turn somewhere. If I wanted it to progress, I couldn't keep on with the same cutesy, cheery stuff that I started with! (And I did include a scene with Matt and Linda to try and lighten the mood for part of it, if that helps any.)**

** The next chapter is one I've been looking forward to writing for a seriously long time. It was what kept me motivated for so long before I discontinued it, thinking, **_**if I can just get to that one part...**_** before everything fell to pieces. Now, though, I am super ready to be getting on with it. I hope you like!**

** Again, all reviews are dearly appreciated and encouraged. Thank you for your time.**


	11. CH10: The Darkness With A Halo

**We've hit ten chapters! In all honesty, I'm not sure I can put a number on how many we've got left before this is all over, though we're getting towards the summit (as I'm sure you can guess). I'm glad to have gotten lots of positive feedback on the story so far, it's really encouraging to read that you're enjoying the progress! I hope you enjoy what I have in store this time, and please let me know!**

* * *

His mummy and daddy had always been somewhat strict regarding bedtimes, so when the two of them arrived at his bedroom door in the middle of the night and led him downstairs for a "talk", Luce felt heartily confused. He supposed it must be an emergency, else it wouldn't be happening. Mummy sat him down on the living room sofa with a patchwork quilt around his shoulders, while his daddy made them all a hot chocolate in the kitchen.

"There's something important we've been meaning to discuss with you, _plemenite_," said his mummy. She sounded very serious, though there was a gentle, almost smiling look on her face, which seemed strange. Usually, when she put on that sort of voice, it was to express her disappointment in him for getting mud on his clothes or arguing with other children. On those occasions, her expression would be a sombre match. "It's - about your angel friend. Mello."

Luce felt his heart give a sudden panicked thump. It felt the same way it feels when you fall suddenly in a dream, or miss a step on the stairs. "You - you didn't kill him, did you, mummy? I know you looked. You didn't see him? You and daddy didn't see him?!"

"We didn't see him," said his mummy. His daddy appeared in the doorway then, a mug in each hand. When she saw him, his mummy looked mildly relieved, though her eyebrows furrowed once he set the mugs down and went to retrieve the third. The liquid in them was still steaming; it was too soon to drink.

"If you didn't see him, then what's wrong?" asked Luce. He wasn't sure where he'd gotten the idea that something was _wrong_, though somehow, he felt it. The way his mummy was behaving reminded him of the evening he first brought Mello up with her. For whatever reason, there was tension between the two of them.

His mummy didn't answer at first, avoiding his eyes. When his daddy appeared once again with the third mug, she perked up, though there was something nervous in her expression now. Daddy sat down with a heavy sigh in the armchair beside them, holding his mug in both hands as it cooled. His mummy remained where she was, kneeling in front of Luce on the sofa with her hands on his knees. Her lip trembled slightly.

"Do you remember how I reacted when you first told me what he looked like?" she asked, looking up at Luce imploringly. When he nodded, she continued, "Well, that was because I recognised him. From a long time ago."

Luce sat forward. "You did?"

"I did," said his mummy. "You see, the thing about beings like Mello is that they are often much older than they appear. Immortal, you know. Like Peter Pan. You liked that film, didn't you?"

Luce gave a small nod. That made sense, he thought. If Mello was a guardian angel, then he'd probably been alive for a very long time; potentially even as long as the man in the moon himself. Just like Peter Pan, alive for centuries, never growing up. A new thought struck him then. If Mello had been around for so much longer than Luce had... then Luce might not be the first child he'd protected. What if...

"Mummy," he said quickly. She looked startled by his sudden engagement. "Did he used to be your guardian angel too?!"

Here, his mummy paused. While she was thinking, she reached across to the coffee table and handed him his mug of hot chocolate, now cool enough to drink. "It's more complicated than that."

Luce took a nervous slurp and handed the mug back to her. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you're almost right," she said, "but also wrong. Back when I was a little girl, I had a guardian angel very similar, by the sounds of things, to your Mello. Only... he didn't turn out to be quite who I thought he was."

* * *

Luce had never been a social child. Often too intelligent and quick to jump between subjects, he found it hard to hold a conversation with most of the others in his class. After learning the dark truth about his guardian angel, though - the one being with whom he'd truly felt a friendship forming - he retreated within himself entirely.

Three days before school finished for Christmas - on the seventeenth of December - an annual Parents' Evening was held, a mid-year report on the children's individual progress. Luce's reports had been the same for as long as he could remember: he was a very bright boy, he knew lots of correct answers and had a vivid creative streak, and yet he persistently struggled to make friends. It was never that he was shy. He had no trouble whatsoever sticking his hand in the air to answer a question. No; the problem was that he didn't put himself out there socially. Every year, his parents would praise him for being so clever and doing so well, so Luce had always figured it didn't matter that he had no friends. He had his parents and his teachers to talk to, and recently, Mello.

Which is why it surprised him so much when this year, his teacher sent him out of the classroom so that his parents could talk to her alone.

"She was just concerned for you," his mummy had said afterwards, during the car ride home. "She wanted to know why you haven't been talking to anyone lately."

Luce had tucked his knees up to his chest and shrugged. He hadn't been talking to _them _a great deal lately, either. Not since they'd told him about Mello. It wasn't that he didn't believe them, exactly. In a way, he almost wished he didn't. The problem was that he _did _believe them, and he now felt a harsh stab of betrayal in his heart every time he thought about his radiant, magical friend. He'd already torn up the leftover pictures he had drawn of them in crayon, and torn down his calendar too, in a tantrum scarier than any he'd had before. At night, he'd taken to staring at his window, now bolted shut, knowing that he could open it if he wanted but not daring to. Sometimes, he wondered if Mello was out there, looking up and waiting.

The Christmas holidays were less fun than any previous Christmas in his life. On Christmas Eve, he climbed into bed feeling sick from eating too many sweets, and the excitement he usually couldn't contain was muted, overshadowed by concern for the demon from the dark side of the moon. He'd been wondering whether Mello celebrated Christmas, whether Mello was going to write him a Christmas card, and then it had hit him that he'd never find out and he couldn't tear his eyes from the window. Tears came quickly, quietly. Tears for the angel he'd never see again.

He was fine on Christmas Day. On that day, Mello was nothing but a small, dark cloud on a broad, sparkling horizon, and Luce was so busy playing and eating and singing that he didn't have time to feel sad. The days leading up to the New Year went by in a haze of much-needed happiness, though when January began, he fell back into his loneliness with a severe oomph. The new calendar he'd been given didn't look as good as the old one, not without the little dots on every corner, the dots he'd used to look forward to so much. Thinking about the way he'd torn his old calendar down made him cry, then his daddy reminding him _why _he'd torn it down made him cry worse. Every night, he dreaded going to sleep, knowing that it meant watching the window, waiting for nothing at all.

Then, on the night before school resumed, everything changed.

* * *

_Snick!_

It was an unexpected sound. Luce sat up in his bed, unsure what it meant; it couldn't be Mello, could it? He always used to announce himself with the rustling of the trellis... but now that the trellis was broken...

_Snick! Snick!_

Something was outside his window. Luce watched it cautiously for a moment, staring into the dark sky, before slipping out of bed and pulling the curtains wide.

_Snick!_

A pebble hit the glass before his face and he jumped back in shock, clapping his hands over his mouth just in time to stifle his yelp. The stone-pelting stopped for a second as he caught his breath, his heart still beating urgently. He knew that there was no-one else it could be - but why tonight? Why now?

Tentatively, he reached for the bolt on the window, then reared back. His mummy had told him that Mello was likely a demon. If he let him in, then tonight might be the night when he finally turned; the night he took his soul and used it to make another demon. He didn't want that. Eyeing the bolt, he stepped back from the window, not liking the idea of being watched from below.

_Snick!_

Luce sighed. He doubted that Mello was going to give up. This was another test, a test like the one he'd given him the night they first spoke. What he was testing, Luce couldn't be sure, though he knew that sticking to his resolve was the only way to win. He took a deep breath and rested his hand upon the bolt.

If he let Mello in, anything could happen. His mummy could be right or his mummy could be wrong. Either way, he'd get to see his angel again, at least for a minute before he decided to show his evil side, if he had one. He'd missed Mello so badly. Demon or otherwise, he'd been Luce's first proper friend, and in the foreseeable future, he couldn't imagine making a new one.

If he didn't let Mello in, he'd be safe. The chance of being hurt by his demonic powers would drop to zero, and he could live the rest of his life in lonely peace. However, he would never know for sure if he _was_ a demon. He never could - not until it was too late and he saw the danger with his own eyes.

Feeling reckless, he glanced to his bedroom door - a cautionary measure, to make sure his mummy wasn't watching - and unslid the bolt. The window opened with a soft pop, releasing a whoosh of cool air into the room; Luce shivered. Nervously, he peered down through the gap he'd made, and sure enough, there Mello stood. A dark outline once again, head raised, watching him from the flowerbed below.

"Mello," he breathed in awe.

"Am I allowed up?" Mello called out to him, quietly enough to avoid being heard by anyone else. He gestured to the broken trellis, and Luce realised that only the lowest part had come free. If Mello did a running jump, he could probably still make it up to him.

He thought about it. "My mummy told me you're a demon."

"Do you believe her?"

"I don't know," he whimpered honestly. And he didn't. Never before in his life had he had reason to doubt something his mummy had told him, yet this time... after months of receiving nothing but affection from Mello, mixed in with the occasional burst of anger which would be quickly apologised for and made up for with a hug... he didn't know. The evidence his mummy used to suggest Mello's evil - namely, the bruises - didn't add up to demonic potential in his mind. Only a slight temper, which even angels could have... right?

"If I promise not to hurt you, will you let me in? Because I promise."

Mello sounded sincere. Luce bit the bullet. He'd committed to this the second he opened the window; he was doomed to concede. Weakly, he pushed the window wider. "Okay."

* * *

Mello made it up to him in a graceful jaunt, reaching and grabbing at the windowsill with catlike ease. Within seconds, they were level, and Luce was backing away to watch as his guardian angel/demon lifted himself inside. He hit the floor in a silent crouch, something he'd mastered in the last few months. Then, he straightened. They were face to face.

"I missed you," said Luciel quietly. All he could see of Mello right now was his dark silhouette.

"I missed you too," the boy said back. If Luce wasn't mistaken, his voice had wavered a little. He hovered on the spot, too wary to take a step forward, though all he wanted right now was to race forwards and tackle him in a hug.

"It's been so lonely without a guardian angel," he said instead. "I don't know how I managed it before. You're such a good friend - I can't believe I thought - oh, Mello, you're not a demon, are you? We're friends, aren't we?"

Mello didn't make any attempt to move towards him. Part of Luce felt relieved; he couldn't trust himself not to back away in caution, which would hurt the boy's feelings for sure. At the same time, though, he couldn't help longing for a more affectionate re-union.

When Mello spoke, his voice came sudden and sharp. There was surprisingly little affection in it, though Luce decided not to blame him for that. It couldn't be fun, being locked out of his room for half a month. "Luciel. Do you know what a guardian angel is for?"

Luce nodded his head, a little bewildered by the random question. "Yes, of course I do! They're there to love you and protect you and -"

"Do you know whose job that really is?"

Luce fell silent. What was that supposed to mean? It was a guardian angel's job; he'd just said so! If the guardian angel had taken the job from someone else, then surely that someone else would've had to be an angel of some sort too?

He froze when he heard Mello's next words:

"It's your mother's."

Mello straightened slowly, rising from his slight natural slouch to full height. The boy wasn't tall, but next to Luce, he was a giant, and completely in shadow. Luce felt his stomach give a twist as he stared at his once-angel, watching him with wide eyes as he raised his hands to his hips.

"I'm here to remind you," said Mello, coldly, "of something very important. Can you guess what that is?"

Luce shook his head hurriedly, his heart beating faster. In the half-light, he thought he caught Mello's face twisting into a nasty smile. He stepped forward and Luce reared back. "_You should've listened to your mother._"

* * *

Not once in his life had Luciel Keehl felt fear like this. Standing barefoot on his bedroom carpet, facing off with the demon who had once been his friend, he felt the bottom drop out from everything. He was in danger. Not dream-danger, not pretend-danger, but actual, real danger. The darkness was alive and it was approaching slowly, eyes on him, growling under its breath. His heart pummelled the walls of his chest like a prisoner shoulder-barging the door of his cell. His eyes pricked with tears.

For a second - one daunting, horrifying second - he felt like he was entirely defenceless. Then, the reality of the situation struck him. He'd seen the fear on Mello's face the night his mummy had walked past the door. He knew that, regardless of how much he'd lied, the things he'd said about turning to stone were true. And all of a sudden, he knew what to do if he wanted to save his life.

Without hesitation, he opened his mouth and screamed.

* * *

Mello froze. Then, he took a small step backwards. In the next room, Luce heard rustling and a thump as his mummy leapt out of bed. "_Luce? What's wrong?_"

Luce glanced at the bedroom door, then back to Mello, who hovered on the spot. The boy looked practically paralysed with fear. Under his breath, he whispered, "No. You didn't. You _didn't._"

The bedroom door behind him slammed open and Luce heard his mummy gasp loudly, his daddy still stumbling about in the next room, shouting something panicked. He kept his eyes on Mello, waiting for the boy to turn to stone, but he never did. What he did instead was far worse.

For a split second, nobody moved or said anything.

Then, his once-guardian angel stumbled backwards, turned and launched himself from the window.

* * *

**You know what? I'm not sorry.**

** (Sorry.) This chapter has been burning at me in a major way since I first got the idea for this fic, and to finally get to write it after so long, discontinuing the story for almost a year, ploughing through all the other plot-points to get to it... I am very satisfied in deed. I know you're going to be mad about the cliffhanger (again... I love them...) but please don't beat me up; I'll be on your good side again by the time we're through with this. Maybe. I hope.**

** Until next time, please do review (it helps a lot) and I hope you're having a good week! ^^**


	12. CH11: The Boy Who Outgrew Fables

**This one took me a little longer than the last few updates, but with good reason - I am up to my neck in exams! (Which means you're not allowed to yell at me. Not that I imagine you would.) It also took me a little longer to think about how I wanted to go about this chapter, since there were a lot of maybes and possibilities I had to consider before working out what felt right.**

** I hope you like it, and thank you very much to those who reviewed last time (kylo on AO3, morlana and XxKalypsoxX on ffn) - your feedback is really appreciated and half of why I enjoy writing fanfics so much!**

** Without further ado... I present to you the final chapter of Angel From The Moon.**

* * *

Luce sat cross-legged in one of the plastic seats of the waiting room, picking idly at the scabs on his knuckles and ignoring the bustling sounds of the hospital around him. His parents weren't here with him; he'd told them to wait in the reception when they arrived, and gotten a nurse to escort him to the place he was in now. The nurse had offered to stay, but he'd politely declined. After the week he'd had, it was a relief to finally be alone.

Mello - or Mihael, as his parents had explained him to be - was somewhere on the other side of the wall behind him, lying in a hospital bed. That was why he was here; to visit his brother. But he wasn't quite ready yet. Hence the sitting, the waiting. The frantic thinking, the picking at his scabs until one sharp nail mistakenly embedded itself into one vulnerable layer of skin, starting him off bleeding again.

Tentatively, he glanced around the waiting room, wondering whether any staff would rush to his aid now that there was a trickle of crimson making its way down the back of his hand. He could hear footsteps in the distance, coughing, the faint squeak of trolley wheels, but no-one came. It made sense, really. In a building where people were getting organ transplants, blood transfusions and other complex surgeries, there wasn't time to pause and hand a little boy a plaster. Never mind that said little boy was hurting in an invisible way, more than he'd ever hurt in his entire life.

Something had changed in him since finding out the truth about Mello. A monumental shift in the core of who he was, an alteration he doubted he could ever revert back from. He'd seen glimmers of it, of course. Foreshadowing tremors beneath the surface, small and scary incidents he'd felt were very out-of-character at the time, in the months leading up to the Incident. But nothing - not even the tantrum where he'd ripped up his old calendar - could've prepared him, or his parents, for the eruption which had come the day before.

It had been half a week since the Incident. His parents had kept him off of school so that they could have a series of important talks with him over mugs of hot chocolate. Across three days, they'd told him who Mello really was; told him about how they sent him away and eventually, told him why. Luce took it all in patiently and silently, barely believing that such horrible stories belonged to his parents. They must've mistaken his lack of response for shock, an inability to absorb the information he'd been delivered, but that wasn't it. He understood what he was being told and he could feel an opinion forming. But until he knew what that opinion was, he decided to keep it quiet.

On the third day, however, his parents told him the one thing which finally caused him to snap: _You're not allowed to see Mihael._

They tried to explain - in rushed garble - that it was for his own good, that he needed some time to process everything if he wanted to avoid psychological harm - but he'd had enough of listening. He exploded. His memory of his anger comes in only fragments now, snapshots tinted red. He remembers a sound that was half-scream half-battle cry, originating from somewhere deep inside him, so loud that he frightened himself. He remembers lashing out, remembers the coffee table lying on its side, remembers tears blurring his vision as he clutched at his bloodied hand. He spent the next four hours cooling off in bed before his parents could get near him to clean the injury. By that point, a sticky half-scab had formed against the sheets and his mummy had been forced to change them.

Which brings him to the fourth day - the present day - where he sat now, licking away the blood from his knuckles and rocking back and forth in the ugly white hospital waiting room. His parents relented and told him he could visit Mello after all when they saw his temper. He didn't know why. He'd seen the TV programmes; he knew that you weren't supposed to teach children that anger got them what they wanted. Maybe they just felt guilty. Guilty for keeping them apart for so long, for unleashing a rage within Luce which he'd never known he possessed.

He leaned back against the wall and sighed softly. He wasn't angry. At least, he wasn't _all _angry. A part of him was glowing with fury, so hot the flames felt blue, like the stars he'd read about in one of his educational books somewhere at home. A new part of him, livid like he'd never known he could be livid. But the rest of him wasn't. Aside from the fury, he felt sadness, a deep mourning sadness for the childhood he could've had with a brother like Mello at his side. Beneath that, there was guilt. Guilt that he was still thinking of himself, when Mello was the one in the hospital bed, the one who had to suffer a childhood alone and unloved while he got toys and games and bubble bath. And lastly, beneath the guilt, he felt hollow. Too hollow to lift his lips and smile, too hollow to even think about putting on a chirpy voice and saying to his brother, _Get well soon!_

He didn't want to be here, not feeling like this. And yet he'd insisted. Slowly, lethargically, he uncurled himself from his ball and clambered down from the plastic chair.

* * *

He didn't knock. Just pushed the door open without looking and slipped hastily inside. He hadn't told Mello that he was coming to visit, though he imagined that word would've gotten round somehow. What he really felt nervous about - after all this, the screaming, the crying, the smashing his fist into the table at home - was whether his brother would even want him there.

He glanced up shyly from beneath his fringe.

And immediately stumbled backwards.

Mello was sitting up at a 45-degree angle in the hospital bed. His skin looked greyish-pale and there were a few cuts on his right cheek, scabbed over and blackish. His hair - radiant and gold as always, perhaps even more so when illuminated in daylight from the open window - gave him an angelic appearance, but the bandages were what reminded Luce that he was real, that he was human. A cast encased the lower half of his right leg, where he'd landed wrong and fractured his ankle, and a sling held his bandaged right wrist, where he'd attempted to catch his fall. He breathed with a sort of awkward hiss, reminding Luce that beneath the hospital gown, he had at least three broken ribs. He was lucky to have not been injured worse, and yet the thought of actually calling him lucky to his face left a bitter taste in Luce's mouth. In the grand scheme of things, Mello wasn't lucky at all.

While the sight of Mello - human Mello, his brother - took his breath away slightly, it was the other, unexpected person in the room which caused him to retreat in alarm. Perched beside Mello on the far side of the bed, one leg up and the other idly swinging, was another boy around twelve, with startling scarlet hair and a games console in his lap. The two looked as though they had been busy; perhaps Mello had been watching him level up. Nobody said anything for a few seconds, the two older boys staring at Luce while the handheld let out odd little bursts of music. Then, silently, the red-haired boy moved a finger to switch the device off.

"Hi, Luce," said Mello weakly. His throat sounded dry, though his voice was friendly enough to make Luce feel a little better. Subconsciously, he started to breathe again.

Nonetheless, he hadn't been prepared for the stranger. He took another small step back, so that his back was almost touching the door, and forced himself to look up. "Who's that?"

"This is Matt," said Mello. "He's my friend."

Matt leaned back a little, teetering precariously on the mattress to place his game on the nightstand. He gave Luce a small grin. "Hi. Nice to meet you. Shit, you're identical."

Mello swatted him as though he hadn't used profane language around Luce himself. Luce swallowed down the lump forming in his throat. He hadn't been quite sure what Mello's reaction to him would be today - maybe apologetic, for the demon display he put on; perhaps scandalised, angry that he'd dare set foot inside this room - though for now, it looked as though he were pretending nothing had ever gone wrong between them.

"Are you coming up?" he asked, and nodded awkwardly to the empty spot at his right-hand side; Matt was sitting at his left. Luce imagined that he would've used his hand to pat the space, only his hand was currently dangling from its sling, not doing much. _How unlucky_, Luce thought, _that he broke the wrist of his writing hand._

"I'm not interrupting, am I?" he asked. He just wanted to be sure.

"Of course not," said Mello. "We've been waiting for you to show up. Come on."

* * *

Luce spent only a little longer deliberating before Matt slipped off the bed and came around the side to fetch him. It had felt weird, being lifted up by someone he barely knew, though Matt didn't strike him as the sort of person to play a nasty trick. The only person in the room who might try something of that variety was Mello, and he was too bandaged. Gently, Matt set him down at his brother's side, where he arranged himself carefully, not wanting to further damage his broken bones.

The three of them talked for a little while, once Matt had resumed his spot. As it turned out, Matt had been given the day off school too, to keep Mello company in what they called Extenuating Circumstances. Luce watched the way he casually drooped an arm around Mello's shoulders as they chattered on and decided that when Mello had said _friend_, what he really meant was _best friend_ _ever. _He couldn't be jealous, not when he considered how short a span of time they'd known each other in comparison. If anything, it made him happy that Mello hadn't been alone all these years, in the Orphanage, like he'd pictured.

When they ran out of things to say, Luce thought that he might be asked to leave, but he wasn't. Matt retrieved his handheld and continued playing in comfortable silence. Mello explained that Matt enjoyed playing for an audience more than he liked playing alone; though he wasn't by nature a show-off, this was the one exception. Matt tilted the screen a little so that Luce could see too and before long they were all absorbed. It was almost dinnertime when a nurse knocked on the door to collect him.

* * *

Luce didn't know when his parents would wind up meeting Mello for real. He doubted Mello would ever be ready. Even the briefest mention of them, that afternoon, made his fists clench a little, made his shoulders tense up and his breath hitch as he accidentally hurt his ribs. Not that it mattered much. Things would work themselves out.

What mattered to Luce most was that he had Mello back. And it wasn't pretend this time, either. No longer hidden behind a fabricated persona, which had made him angry when he first found out, so angry that in his mind (and out loud, alone in his room) he'd called Mello some horrible things. Now, he was real. It was no lie that in the past, before all this, he'd fantasised about having older siblings to look out for him. And now he did.

Mello was going to continue living at the Orphanage. He knew that. Just as soon as he was well enough to leave hospital, he'd be forced to go back or move in with his family, and while a part of Luce longed for the latter, he had no doubt that Mello wouldn't do it, and he was well within his right not to. The truth was that they were never going to have a normal sibling relationship, however hard they worked at it.

But that wasn't important. Luce had grown up a lot this past year and he knew that ultimately, he could handle whatever came their way. He was old enough to visit Mello and Matt in hospital while his parents waited in reception; old enough to keep visiting Mello on weekends, he hoped. He was old enough to come to terms with difficult things, even if - as it had turned out - he had a nightmare temper beneath the surface.

Most crucially, he was old enough to know that there were no angels living in the moon.

And that was perfectly alright.

* * *

**Before you panic about unanswered questions (because I know I left some things ambiguous, and while some of those are going to stay ambiguous, there are a few things I'd like to clear up), **_**there will be an epilogue. This is the last official chapter but it is not the end.**_

** Thank you so much for taking the time to read this far and I really hope you enjoyed this chapter! May I again ask that if you enjoyed it, if you have any comments at all (or, you know, you wanna help a girl out by taking a minute out of your day), any reviews would be massively appreciated. Roll on to the epilogue!**


	13. Epilogue: Just Mello

**Well, you made it! This is the epilogue and final instalment of Angel From The Moon. I'm not sure what to say other than thank you, so, uh... thank you. I strongly appreciate everyone who's favourited and reviewed; seeing that people have enjoyed this story has made it all the more worth writing.**

** I hope you like this chapter, and I apologise for it's length but there was a lot I wanted to fit in. Lots of time-jumping and so-on. Anyway, I'll shut up now. Thank you again.**

* * *

It was a beautiful November night. Chilly, yes, but beautiful; the kind of night where the wind snakes low through the grass of the fields, making it ripple like an ocean, and the sky is dark and mysterious beyond the flashes of fireworks. People were gathered in the distance, one lively shadowed mass, around a wide perimeter of protective barriers which kept them from harm as they watched the display.

Further back, at the foot of a hill far enough from the crowds to feel entirely separate, a boy of fifteen sat beside his best friend on a picnic blanket. Both shivering slightly, they huddled together for warmth, wrapped in thick coats. The cold didn't make them miserable.

The boy's name had once been Mihael Keehl, but it had been ten years since he last used it. Three years ago - when he was twelve, and he encountered a younger member of the Keehl family - he'd wondered whether he might live to use it again. In his mind, he'd imagined hearing his best friend stumble to get it right every day - "_Mel-Mihael_" - and the thought had bothered him so much that he hadn't considered it since. Though the name no longer felt as bitter to him as it once had.

A lot had happened in those three years since meeting his brother. For one thing, he'd grown taller than Matt. Where as children, they'd been roughly equal in height, he now trumped him by a full inch. It was something he liked to be smug about, though the truth was that he didn't care how tall they were so long as it meant that they were standing side-by-side. His values had shifted a lot in recent history. One key aspect of this had been his waking up in the middle of the night, sweating coldly, with the realisation that he was taking the red-haired boy for granted.

However, it wasn't only meeting Luce which had altered his perspective. There was another event which had triggered the change, only the previous year. One year ago to the day - on the 5th of November, 2004 - something monumental had taken place.

L had fallen.

* * *

Matt had come to find him that afternoon, a short while after Roger had whisked him and Near away to his office. The sun was high and gave a false illusion of warmness to the grounds of Wammy's House, where the air hung still and painfully cold. Once-Mihael was sitting hunched over on a deserted bench, where a group of eight-year-olds had been peacefully trading cards not a moment before, only to scatter when they saw him approach. He'd thought about calling them back and telling them not to be afraid of him, but it didn't feel like an emergency. Nothing felt like an emergency since leaving that room. He felt weird and light and hollow, to the point of speechlessness. So there he sat, staring at the ground, until Matt appeared from around the corner.

"Mel? What happened this morning?" Matt made sure not to sit too close to him. Once-Mihael felt guilty that he'd been conditioned to expect a violent reaction to his words, though for once, the guilt didn't feel as heavy as usual. He knew, for the first time, that he could do something about it.

"Mel? You're shaking."

Once-Mihael didn't reply. Eventually, Matt seemed to figure out that he was shaking with laughter, because he backed off in surprise. "Mel?"

"I'm... fine, Matt," said Once-Mihael. To his ears, his voice had never sounded stranger. It sounded like he was hearing someone else, someone who hadn't said anything for a very long time. Someone who had been kept silent since he first learned the name L.

Matt seemed to register the change too. He leaned forwards to rest a hand on Once-Mihael's shoulder, then pushed him back so that he could see his face. Once-Mihael tried to keep his expression neutral as Matt studied him, not wanting to freak him out more, though it was hard trying to suppress the giddy laughter that bubbled up from inside him.

Finally, Matt spoke. "Did something happen?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"...L died."

Matt stared at him for a long, hard moment, green eyes slowly going wide. "_What_?"

"L died," he said again. Saying it felt like taking a particularly heavy stone out of his pocket and throwing it in a lake. He repeated himself a few more times as Matt continued to stare, until he blinked and Matt was suddenly holding him by both shoulders, short nails shockingly sharp. They were both standing up. He didn't remember standing up.

"Mello," Matt said seriously. Once-Mihael had seen Matt look concerned before, but this was almost startlingly different. The boy's eyebrows were knitted and he'd gone slightly pale. It was enough to drag him back to Earth, a little. "I need you to be honest with me right now. What did Roger want from you?"

"He wanted me to team up with Near," Once-Mihael replied vacantly. "He said that L never picked which one of us would be his successor in the event of his death, so he tried to get both of us to do it."

"And?"

"I said no."

"You... turned him down?"

"I did," said Once-Mihael. It took him a moment to focus before he properly found Matt's eyes. Matt was looking him over like he was a stranger, an alien invader who'd taken Mello's body as its host. Weakly, he continued, "there's no need to pull that face at me."

A small shard of fear lodged its way into his heart as he continued to stare back into Matt's eyes. They'd been best friends for all the parts of their lives that mattered, and yet he couldn't even vaguely predict what he was about to say. For whatever reason, a part of him expected anger. Anger at the boy who had wasted his childhood chasing an impossible dream, costing them years of valuable friendship and connection. Anger for all the afternoons shut up indoors alone, waiting for him to finish studying so they could go and play. Waiting until it grew dark outside and he realised that they weren't going to play at all; that he'd been given a false promise. All for nothing. The sudden culmination of all the mistakes he made with Matt felt overwhelming, and in a moment of terror he wondered if he was going to yell at him. _You wasted our lives! And you couldn't even see it through! Selfish moron!_ He flinched like the words had already been said. Matt had never yelled at him before.

A few more agonising seconds ticked by before Matt opened his mouth. The words that came out sounded more dazed than anything else. "...I just thought... I thought you'd jump at the chance."

"So did I," Once-Mihael confessed. But he hadn't jumped at the chance.

Standing in that office, with Roger sat stiffly behind his desk like he was bracing himself for a hurricane - with Near behind him, as flippant and aggravating as ever - something very weird had happened to Once-Mihael. It felt like he'd just walked in on himself doing something ridiculous. Just as he was about to explode, about to seize Roger by the arms and demand to know how this could have happened - how L, his everything, could have left him - a realisation came over him like a blanket and put out his fire.

He didn't care about L. He'd never known him. All he knew were the stories, and though he felt closer because of where he'd been raised, the truth was that all any child anywhere knew were the stories. He didn't care about becoming a detective. It seemed pointless, suddenly, how hard he'd worked for all these years when it didn't even make him happy. Standing in the office, staring at his reflection in Roger's glasses, he envisioned himself in a life of isolated focus. Pacing offices shared with Near, being forced to listen every day to his quiet tinkering with whatever stupid toy had captured his attention. Solving cases - solving the _Kira case_ \- would never bring him joy, even if it meant avenging L's death. Not when there were so many other things he could be doing - things that didn't leave him shut indoors - with the friends he was lucky enough to have. Near was the one who'd been born to do this. He'd been given the chance to do so much more.

"Working with Near would mean leaving England for the US," he explained to Matt, as they stood together beside the bench. "I'd lose you and Luce. You're my family. I don't care what I'd be working on - I'm not sacrificing you."

Matt laughed faintly, though his breath wobbled like he was going to cry. "I never thought you'd choose me over L."

"Like he was ever worth it. Even yesterday, I would've given anything to be just like him - but who even was he? Some selfish detective who picked and chose cases because they were _fun_? Some guy who thought it was a good idea to pit smart kids against each other in this place until we all lost our shit? You remember A, don't you?" Matt nodded. "L was nothing but a fuck-up. In the end, he even lost to Kira. I pinned all my hopes on him, but he let me down in every way. You saw it from the start."

* * *

Recovery was hard. It's not every day that the foundations of everything you thought you were fall out from beneath you. Once-Mihael spent the Christmas season that year grieving; for L, the detective who moulded his childhood and left without saying goodbye; for himself, and all the things he was no longer set up to be. Hardest to cope with was the knowledge of all the years behind him, years that could've been so much richer.

"You've still got plenty of years left, Mello," Matt told him one night, as they were sitting on his bed after lights-out. Once-Mihael was hugging a pillow to his chest, and had confessed his pain to Matt with a croaky voice. "You can make it up to me. Next year, we're gonna do all sorts of things we never did - and _more_, because we're older now. If you want, we can make a list." He put a hand on Once-Mihael's shoulder. "I'll admit that I'd have loved to spend more time with you growing up. We lost a lot of time not talking to each other in here, you working, me gaming, and I'd love to have it back. But we aren't going to get it back, and that's alright. I mean... we did a good enough job, didn't we?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that we're best friends. I care about you more than anyone else I know. And you care about me. We've been through nearly ten years of this Hell-school together and we've come out on the other side as a team. We could've done more with the time, sure, but we also could've done _way less_."

"...You have a point."

"I always have a point. I'm actually not half bad at making points."

Matt had been joking, but he was right. Things got significantly easier following that conversation. On New Year's Eve - huddled in a common room at the Orphanage, listening to the countdown on TV, with Luce and Matt on either side of him eating Hobnobs - he actually felt ready to move on. It was like he'd spent every day since the news of L's death stumbling through a blizzard, switching between extremes of panic and excitement, and finally they'd settled into a balance. No, he didn't know exactly where he was going from here. But he knew that with support, he'd figure it out.

* * *

Sitting beside Matt on the blanket, watching the sky light up with coloured sparks, it felt weird thinking back to where he'd been a year ago today. So many good things had happened since he'd rejected the opportunity to join Near in the hunt for Kira. Looking back on it, he didn't even know what he'd done the night he learned of L's death; couldn't remember whether or not he'd gone to the display. He doubted that he had, and almost regretted it for a second, before remembering that he was here now. With Matt.

"You okay?" asked Matt, right on cue. He nudged Once-Mihael with his elbow.

"My butt's gone kind of numb."

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

"...Fine. I'm thinking about L, but not in the way you're imagining. Actually, I was just thinking about how glad I am to be here instead of wherever the fuck Near's at."

"America?"

"Yeah, there. What do they do on Bonfire Night? Just carry on business-as-usual, with no fireworks? Screw that." A breeze caught him by surprise and he shuffled closer to Matt. Somehow the chill had made its way straight into his coat. "I'd rather be right here."

Matt didn't say anything.

"...Are _you_ okay?"

"M'fine," Matt mumbled, but Once-Mihael got the sense that something was amiss. His friend had averted his eyes when he moved closer, and now he was shrinking back like he wanted to disappear into his coat. "Just cold."

Once-Mihael made a move to put an arm around him, but Matt immediately tensed up, so he dropped it. "Come on. What's wrong?" Again, Matt didn't speak. "We've been fine all summer. This has been the best year of our lives. What's the deal?"

Finally, Matt risked looking him in the eyes. The expression he wore was different to any he'd seen on his face in the past. Nervous, withdrawn... and a little embarrassed. "There's something I've been meaning to tell you, Mel. I'm trying to work out whether or not I should."

"Is it serious?"

"Kinda."

Once-Mihael felt a stab of worry pierce his heart. He couldn't help the wave of awful possibilities that swept through him: was Matt going somewhere? Leaving him? Was he sick? Dying maybe? What if he actually just didn't like him any more, and their whole friendship was about to come crashing down around them?

He took a deep breath. "You know you can just tell me if something's bothering you, right? You're my friend. I'm not going to deck you."

"You might."

"Why? What've you done?" He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but Matt didn't laugh.

"It's... not what I've done, Mel. It's... uh."

He looked away again. Once-Mihael didn't think he could look less comfortable if he tried, all curled in on himself and writhing. It was like the truth was a poison inside of him, a poison he was trying to extract; he wanted it out, but it was simply too painful to manage. Ignoring his racing heart, Once-Mihael laid a hand on Matt's shoulder, suddenly understanding how it must've felt for Matt every time _he'd _been the one having a freak-out. He put all of his energy into steadying his voice. "Matt. Just say it."

"I think I'm gay."

He had to repeat it twice before Once-Mihael heard him. After that, there was a very strange silence between them, filled only by the chatter of strangers and the crackle of fire in the sky.

Then, softly, "...are you mad at me?"

Once-Mihael shook his head. He wasn't sure how he felt, but he knew it wasn't mad. "I thought you were going to tell me you had cancer or something."

"Is this any better?"

"Are you kidding? Of course it's better."

Matt still wasn't looking at him. All of his attention was being redirected to a hole in the knee of his jeans, which he picked at with fervour. "I thought you wouldn't like it. I mean, since we share a room and everything. I don't want you to think I've been creeping on you. You're my best friend."

"Come on, Matt. If anyone's the creeper, it's me. How many times have I crawled into bed with you this year? It's not like we're ten any more; I should be old enough to sleep alone by now, but I still do it." He was trying to make the conversation lighter. It didn't seem to be working.

"What's your point?"

"My point is that... gah, I'm not sure. You're the one who likes making points."

Matt met his eyes. He looked like he was going to cry.

"Okay, scratch that. I know what my point is," said Once-Mihael. He shifted closer, deliberately snaking the hand he'd placed on Matt's shoulder around his neck. Matt tensed again, slightly, but otherwise didn't protest. "My point is that I care about you. You're my favourite person in the whole world, and you'd probably have to tell me you were a Nazi before I changed my mind."

"So... it doesn't bother you? That I'm into guys?"

"Nope, not at all." He paused, wondering how he could make it sound more convincing. "I mean, it's not like I ever assumed you were straight. We never talk about girls."

"I guess not."

Neither of them said anything for a while after that. Once-Mihael got the impression that maybe Matt wanted to. His eyes were still shining a little, even if he hadn't given in to crying yet. Seeing him like that felt like an odd sort of wake-up call to Once-Mihael. In his head, he'd always considered himself the strong one, chaotic like a pinball, while Matt was gentler, more stable. And yet, he cried at almost anything. Matt was startlingly stoic by comparison.

He was just about to point this out when a loud shriek from the top of the hill made both of them jump out of their skin.

"Guuuuys! Lucie won me a cuddly elephant! _Can you believe it?!_"

It was Linda, of course. Making her way down to them in skittering steps, her wellington boots struggling to find footholds on the harsh slope. Under one arm, she held a floppy grey thing which was, presumably, the elephant in question. The other was outstretched behind her, linked with Luce's. She was a head taller than him and he looked embarrassed to be attached to her, but he hadn't complained when she'd offered earlier to take him on some of the carnival rides. He'd never been to a bonfire display before now, his parents always insisting they were dangerous, but at the ripe age of ten Once-Mihael had decided that enough was enough. And thus, he, Matt and Linda had all taken the bus to his house, where he'd waited on the corner (away from his parents' eyes) as they talked them around.

Once-Mihael could see from a glance that their decision had been worth it. Luce's arm was only limply linked with Linda's - definitely reluctant - but there was a fierce glow on his cheeks and he smiled like he was having the time of his life.

"Like I said, he's a total gentleman," Linda continued as they reached the bottom of the hill. Letting go of Luce, she crashed down onto the picnic blanket and nudged pointedly at Once-Mihael. "_Someone _could learn a thing or two."

"Get lost, Linda."

"See what I mean?"

She and Matt laughed together. There was a residual nervousness on Matt's face, though as Once-Mihael watched, it started to dissipate. For a brief moment, he wondered if he'd told Linda first, though he doubted it. Matt would never risk word of something this important getting to him from someone else, and while Linda wasn't generally a telltale, the possibility would've surely been enough to dissuade him.

But then, suddenly, "Hey, Matt. Do you want me to _go and take Luce to get hot chocolate_?"

"Linda - um. That's alright."

Once-Mihael stared between them. Linda tried again. "Matt, really. It's cool. If you need me to _take Luce to get hot chocolate _\- like if I need to _take him away so that neither of us is here_-"

"He's already told me, Linda," Once-Mihael interjected.

"Oh." She smiled sheepishly. "That's cool, then."

Matt looked away and covered his face like he was hiding a blush.

"Told you what?" asked Luce innocently. He was asking Once-Mihael, but Linda answered before he could open his mouth.

"He's a fancy rainbow man!"

"Linda! Way to make it sound normal."

"Sorry, bro."

Luce still looked confused, though Once-Mihael figured he could always take him aside later to explain. He didn't know how much their parents would've talked to him about sexuality, though it wasn't like he was too dumb to get it. In the meantime, he was too busy laughing, because the description of _fancy rainbow man _did not fit the boy sitting next to him _at all_. Even if he did like boys.

Linda got to her feet suddenly. "I'm going to get hot chocolate."

"Linda! I told you, I already explained-"

"Doesn't matter. I'm cold and I want a hot drink," she interrupted. Then she turned to Luce. "Come and help me carry?"

"Get one for me, too," said Once-Mihael.

"Lazy ass. Fine."

The two of them departed. Once-Mihael felt significantly less uncomfortable next to Matt than he had before they arrived; now that the tension had been broken, talking to him seemed easy again. He waited until Linda and Luce were a safe distance away before restarting the conversation.

"Matt."

"Mel. Thank you so much for not being weird about this. I'm sorry about Linda - I had to tell her first, I needed a wingman in case I babied out-"

"It's no big deal." A pause. "By the way, Fancy Rainbow Man is sticking."

"Oh no, it'd better not be."

"Too late. You can thank Linda when she gets back."

"I hate you."

"You don't really."

"No, I don't."

There was a pause. In the distance, Linda and Luce's outlines had mixed in with the others milling around. The crowd was beginning to disperse now that the fireworks had finished; some were heading home, others to the food stands, and others the funfair at the top of the hill. Towards them.

"Mel... I know I've made things weird enough already, but there kind of is something else."

"You haven't made things weird," Once-Mihael insisted.

"Sure, whatever. I'm about to. Anyway... I know this is kind of every straight guy's worst nightmare, but... uh, I have a bit of a crush on you."

"_Me_?" The thought hadn't even crossed his mind.

"Yeah. You. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I mean, it's alright." Now he understood why Matt had been worried about making things weird. Regardless of how fine he was with the situation, they could hardly go back to their normal routine. Either they'd have to shift their dynamic - possibly even distance it, which hurt to think about - or they'd end up in a cycle of ignoring Matt's feelings, which would no doubt hurt a lot. Internally, he cursed. Why did Matt have to fall for _him_? He had nothing to offer. Until last year, he'd been a pathetic excuse for a friend. "I have to ask, though... how long have you felt like this?"

Matt sighed softly. "I'm not sure. I always knew I felt strongly about you, but I guess I've always thought of it as more of a family thing than anything else. I've never really known how a brotherly connection feels, so I guess maybe I couldn't tell the difference. It wasn't until around June this year - Pride month - when I started seriously wondering about not being straight."

"I see."

"I don't know what to do, Mel."

Once-Mihael lifted his head. Matt looked ridiculously helpless, drumming his fingers on his shins and staring around with agitated eyes. It hurt to see him like that. For the first time, Once-Mihael wondered about his own sexuality. He'd never had the chance to think about it while studying to become L, too busy with the excess of work he was piling onto himself, and this last year he'd been so caught up in making up for lost time that it just hadn't crossed his mind. Maybe by default he'd always assumed that he liked girls, though he couldn't remember any specific crushes. Matt had been like a brother to him since he first started at Wammy's, but now that he had an _actual _brother... he wasn't sure if what he felt for them was the same thing at all.

"You're allowed to be stressed out by all this," he said slowly, cautiously. He'd never been as good as Matt at the whole reassurance thing, but he could hardly cop out now. "It's... a really big thing. I still have no idea why you'd like _me _of all people, but hey, if you've put up with me as a friend for all these years, I guess it isn't a huge stretch away."

"I don't have answers, Mel. I _need _answers. What do you want me to do? Do you want me to ask Roger for a different room? I mean - I get that you're trying to be a good friend but you can't pretend that this doesn't bother you."

"Matt..."

_It only bothers me because I want to give you what you want, because I don't want you be unhappy, and I'm scared that I can't do it. I have no idea how I feel about you myself. I'm on the spot here._

Matt lifted a hand to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. "We should move. There's a horde of people coming this way, and the blanket's gonna get trampled."

"Matt. Wait. Listen."

"There's no time, Mel."

"Let's do a trial run."

Matt froze. Turned to look at him. "A what?"

"A trial run. Noun. A preliminary test of how a new system works."

"I know what it means," said Matt. "I just... what exactly would we be trialling?"

Once-Mihael shifted toward him on the blanket. He could see the crowd getting closer, Linda and Luce quite possibly among them. His heart fluttered as he realised how little time he had left to change his mind.

He spoke quickly. "We'll always be family, Matt. Whatever happens between us happens - friends share everything, right? If we fuck up and this all goes to Hell, we'll probably be laughing about it ten years down the line. But right now" - he pauses here to take Matt's hand, forcing him to stop the rhythm on his leg - "I think it's worth a shot. Talking to you tonight has made me realise that I'm really confused too."

Matt blinked, startled. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I think I might like you back."

* * *

The night was long and Mello spent it shivering in the November breeze, laughing in good company. He didn't get the chance to tell Matt how he'd reached his conclusion; only that he'd reached it, and that seemed to be enough.

When the time came to drop Luce off at his parents' house, he hugged his brother tightly before heading inside. He had no idea how disastrously the almost-angel's life could've gone, had he not left his window open that night in July. But Mello had a feeling.

It only made him hug him tighter.

* * *

**Well... there you go, I guess! Angel From The Moon is now officially complete, after more than a year of writing and quite a fair chunk of time spent on hiatus. I'm very grateful to anyone who's stuck with it and I hope this ending satisfied. I know there's a number of unanswered questions - like **_**will Mello and Matt stay together properly?**_** \- but hey, I'm sure you're imaginative enough to make up your own answers. I wanted to leave this story on a new beginning, because it really shows how much the characters have changed throughout.**

** Not much Luce in this chapter either, but that was kind of the point, I guess. How different Mello's life might be had it been altered by his presence. I wanted to focus more on the effect Luce had than on Luce himself.**

** So... that's it, I guess! Thank you again! Also, please do review this because I've put a lot of my heart into getting it complete. Fanfiction writers do their work for free, so really the biggest thanks you can give me (if you enjoyed this, that is) is a vote of confidence. Thanks again for sticking around.**

** What am I going to write next? Who even knows.**


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